


Collector's Peace.

by Ook



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternative Universe - Demons and Angels, Alternative Universe- Still have powers, Az says you can love men or women or fruit, Child Abuse, Erik contains some homophobia until Az fixes it, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Abuse, Raven eats pedophiles and rapists, Seriously quite a lot of torture in the first two chapters, Torture, as long as they love you back, kinkmeme prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 05:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Erik summons up a demon in order to revenge himself on his captor, while he is still in captivity. Charles is the demon who answers his call, as only Charles would.</p><p>Hurt comfort, icky squicky torture, underage drinking and a completely inhuman and amoral Charles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Erik knows he is going to die here. There is no escape, no hope. The only thing that has kept him alive has been hatred. Herr Doktor has had him and hurt him for a year, and soon, he knows, not even the dreams of avenging his mother will be enough.  
The only thing he can do is sell his death for revenge. So he has caught the rat, stolen a candle and some chalk. The dying inmate who'd told him what to do had named a demon, a being of ancient evil and destruction. Something strong enough to destroy Herr Schmidt. 

Erik has drawn the patterns, killed the rat, mouthed the chants, and now, exhausted and in pain, he waits.  
It's the scent of tea that finally makes Erik realise he's lost his mind. Here, in the camps, amid the smells of death and dirt and decay, of human-made hell on earth, he could swear someone is drinking _tea._  
Ever so politely, someone he can't see, clears his throat. A gentle, British voice speaks.  
"Well? You have called me, I have come." 

It's true then. The Devil is an Englishman. Fearfully, Erik lifts his head. His gaze travels past fine leather shoes, crushing his circle of protection, to see... A kindly faced gentleman of uncertain age, wrapped in knitted wool and tweed, smiling at him. His eyes are an electric, burning blue. He is drinking something from a delicate tea cup. Erik swallows down his terror and disappointment. He had hoped for something terrible, a fearful and dreadful monster, not an escaped professor. Still. Maybe it's a disguise? A slight frown creases the professor's face, the teacup vanishes and he strides towards Erik, kicking aside the butchered rat and crushing the summoning symbols beneath his shiny shiny shoes. 

Erik tries to scramble backwards, but gasps in pain as his injured back hits the wall. Her Doktor had gotten carried away last week, and Erik still can't stand or walk easily. The summoned professor crouches, bringing his face level with Erik's.  
"Oh, my dear boy, you really didn't need to go to all this trouble just for _me._ " He smiles, encouragingly. "Intent and will are all that is needed for me to hear your call." 

"I.. I summoned you..." His breath hitches. The professor waits, patient as the sky. "I... want to make a deal."  
"That is what most summon me for, yes." He's pulling out a little notebook now, and a fountain pen. He glances at Erik through the half-moon glasses that have suddenly appeared on his face.  
"Can you... can you kill a man, for me?" Erik falters.  
"Many, my dear boy. Many." He licks a finger delicately, and turns a page of his notebook. He seems... disappointed?  
"I only want one." Erik says. He's not sure he has payment for more than one.

The professor hmms as he turns another page.  
"And in exchange?" He quirks a jaunty eyebrow at Erik, who draws a deep breath and squares his shoulders.  
"I.. what do you want? My blood? My soul? My life?"  
"It seems such a modest request. Suppose you tell me why this man needs to die?" the professor says, mildly.  
"He shot my mother!" The demon raises an eyebrow. Is he _mocking_ Erik's loss?

 

Suddenly, Erik is blindingly, deeply furious; at Schmidt, at the demon, at the universe that allowed him to be born a Jew and a freak in Nazi Europe, that allowed him both his mother's love and Schmidt's interest, that he was born to suffer and suffer and _suffer._ The demon has not stopped smiling, but his gaze sharpens. Erik glares at him. Outside, he can hear the steady, measured tread of the guards.  
"Thank you. That will do nicely." He makes a firm note in the little book, shuts it with a snap, and pockets it. The teacup appears again.  
"Ww what?" Erik doesn't understand, not at all.

"Yes, I'll kill this man for you. Tea?" The satanic professor offers another cup. Erik takes it automatically, mind busy on other things. It smells delicious.  
"I don't understand. What about my life?" He doesn't mention his soul, just in case.  
"Well, I said I would kill him if you told me why he needed killing. You did. Small deed, small bargain. So..." and, god- anyone, _anything_ \- help Erik now, he smiles again, almost apologetically.

"You promise he'll die?" Without thinking, Erik tastes the tea. It is refreshingly delicious. His mind shrieks a warning at him a moment later, but all that happens is that his back- and his feet, and his left hand- stop hurting.  
"Oh yes. Eventually." The professor demon stands, brushing invisible dust from his trousers as he rises. He offers an inviting hand to Erik. "Want to watch?" He takes it. It is strong and warm, uncalloused. Erik notices in passing that his missing fingernails have grown back. He cannot believe this, but it does not feel like a dream

"Yes, please." Erik says. The demon's smile is not at all nice now. 

Neither is Erik's.

 

\-----------------------

Erik is walking towards Schmidt's laboratory without being summoned. He has never come into Herr Doktor's presence without pain. He knows he should be terrified. But the demon's pace is steady and his grip on Erik's hand is warm and reassuring. They pass like ghosts, under the noses of guards and drifting through walls like dust. For some reason there is no guard outside the laboratory door. The demonic professor vanishes his teacup again, and gestures at Erik with his free hand.

“You want me to knock?” Erik asks, incredulously.  
“Of course, dear boy. Manners are always important you know. Manners and style.” The professor straightens his cardigan, fussily.

Dumbly, Erik knocks.  
“Komme!”  
He knows the demon has caught his flinch at the sound of Schmidt's voice, because his grip on Erik's hand tightens minutely. His other hand lands on Erik's shoulder, half propelling him into the room, half reassuring him.

 _“Little Erik?”_ Herr Doktor seems more puzzled than angry at his sudden appearance. He doesn't appear to be aware of Erik's protector; either the demon is not as interesting as Erik's unexplained presence or the professor is making himself less visible for the moment.

"I am going to kill you.” Erik wishes he could have said that without his voice cracking, but he is glad he manages not to stutter. Herr Doktor laughs, and picks up one of his newer glass scalpels, and it is just like one of Erik's nightmares, or one of his bad days happening again.

Then the professor speaks from behind him. He sounds quite cheerful.

"Well, actually, Erik, _I'm_ going to kill him. _You_ are going to watch. And learn, if you like.”  
The smile drops away from Schmidt's face abruptly. Erik is unsure whether he recognises the threat Erik's demon is; but then he drops the knife and calls, sharply:

"Azazel!” Nothing happens. Schmidt flushes. The professor sips from his reappearing tea cup and waits. Schmidt shouts again, and again. The professor guides Erik over to the lab bench, and helps him perch on it.

Finally there is a waft of sulphurous smoke, and a scarlet man wearing an impeccable suit appears with a soft _bamfing_ noise.  
You bellowed, O mighty one?” the scarelt demon says. His tail twitches, irritably.  
“Ah, Azazel.” A sneer twists the red face. Schmidt adjusts his cuffs. “Little Erik has managed to summon himself a demon too. I trust you can take care of it?” He almost sounds calm, but Erik can see one of his eyes is twitching slightly. He glances up as his demon in fear; what will happen now?

“Charles.” The red demon nods at Erik's professor. He beams back at him, widely. Erik is briefly transfixed at the thought that his demon's name is something as unsatanic and ordinary as Charles. The professor- Charles- catches his eye and shrugs.

"Azazel, old chap!” He strides forwards and shakes Azazel's hand heartily. There is a brief pause as the demons stare at each other. Then Azazel's tail stops twitching and he, too, grins widely. He steps away from Schmidt, and bows towards Erik, cheerfully. He nudges Erik along the lab bench and sits next to him. He pulls out a bottle of some clear alcohol and swigs. Then he offers it to Erik.

Schmidt's face is a _picture_ ; one Erik wishes he could paint or carve so he could have the memory of it with him, always.  
“Azazel! You obey me!I command you!”  
“No, _tovarisch._ I do not obey _you._ I obey _contract._ ” Azazel explains calmly, as he takes the vodka back from Erik. Erik starts to smile.  
_“What!?”_ The red demon sighs.  
"Contract states you do not die until you _wish_. Contract states that _when_ you die, I take your soul. Before then, I cannot hurt you, and I cannot allow you to be harmed by anything from this world.” Schmidt gapes. “I _could_ interpret that to protect you, surely, but... I do not _like_ you. And I owe Charles a favour.”

"And I'm rather afraid, old chap, that I'm not from this world. No demon is. Would you like a cup of tea before I make you wish you were dead?” Charles inquires, brightly.  
Schmidt bolts from behind his desk, scrambling for his gun. Charles raises one finger, politely, and Schmidt freezes in place. Charles taps him lightly on the forehead, and Schmidt wheels himself around and marches to the long table Erik has spent so many hours strapped to. Azazel chortles.  
Charles starts rooting about in the tray of "surgical" instruments the Herr Doktor always has with him. Schmidt lies down on the table, stiffly. His face is blank. Only his eyes are his own. They are alight with fear and rage.  
"Ah! Pliers!” Behind them, Charles gives a pleased little hum. “Now, Erik, pay attention. You should never stop learning. I'm going to start with his teeth.” There is a crunching, gritty noise, and Schmidt gives a muffled cry. Erik's stomach churns. He turns to Azazel, who grins at him, companionably. His teeth are very white.

“Why don't you like Herr Schmidt?” Erik asks, trying not to hear the noises Charles is making with Schmidt's body. "Because, young one, he is an asshole. An old asshole. I have been obeying his contract for centuries. Also he has no style.”

“Style is important.” chirps Charles. “Goodness me, how many molars do you _have?_ ” There is another crunching noise and Schmidt shrieks again.

 

Erik sips tea and vodka in turns over the next few hours as his demon reduces the Herr Doktor to a whimpering pulp, with scalpels pliers and a genial running commentary.  
“Always make sure to crack the ribs early on, Erik; that way you save some effort, because then even screaming hurts.”  
“Da. Also make sure to leave one eye if possible; then he can see what's happening to his body.” contributes Azazel. Erik thinks he should find it more disturbing than he does, but apart from the occasional pieces of advice Charles thinks he needs to know, it's not too bad, not after a year of the camps and in the Herr Doktor's care. The tea and the vodka help.

Finally, Erik is sure that Charles can't do anything more to Schmidt without actually killing him. His screams have given way to gurgles and wheezes. His teeth are all over the floor, along with his fingers and a lot of blood. Charles ate the one eyeball he took.  
“D-does he want to die?” Erik asks, almost hopefully. Charles lays aside the screwdriver and lifts his left hand to his temple.  
“No. Not yet.” He frowns a little. Then he smiles. “Still, if at first you don't succeed, try, try again!”  
He pours some of his current cup of tea into Schmidt's broken mouth. Before Erik's eyes, Schmidt's ruined body repairs itself. “Now, let's try this again, shall we?” He smooths an absent hand over Schmidt's hair as he picks up the pliers again. 

Schmidt begins to sob.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is out of ideas as to what he should do now Herr Schmidt is deceased. Charles the demon has one or two for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, aftermath of really unpleasant torture and child abuse, plus trauma? Sorry.

Erik has been vomiting; for some reason the dripping remnants of Schmidt's corpse had finally set off the nausea he had been fighting while the Herr Doktor was alive. He is muzzily pleased that that is finally over. Schmidt is dead. Schmidt is very dead. He is aware he may be a little drunk. Azazel left him the bottle of vodka when he vanished with the dim flickering ember of Schmidt's soul. He had been tossing the soul from hand to hand and whistling as he left. Azazel had smiled at him when the Doktor had been allowed to die, and when Erik looked up at the sound of his departure, the vodka had been at his elbow. It is proving just the thing to get the taste of bile out of his mouth.

Charles is washing his hands in the lab sink. It is taking some time; things got very... sticky towards the end. Erik is amazed that his demon's suit has remained so clean. Perhaps he used evil magic?  
“Something like that.” Charles smiles at him. “Tweed is a lovely fabric, you know. Treat it right and it can last for centuries.” He beams at Erik before turning back to the sink. Erik manages a faint smile in response.

He slides down to rest on the floor, leaning against the wall. He can do that now, and it does not hurt. Being free from pain seems almost impossibly miraculous as being free from Herr Schmidt. He does not know why Charles did that for him. It doesn't seem to be part of demonic nature, to give things away for free, and yet, he has made no reference to it. erik doesn't know what happens now. Outside this blood stained room is the camp, and outside the camp there is the whole of the Nazi Reich, and Erik knows it. He is still trapped. Erik blinks, wearily. He should be thinking of _escape_ , of fighting _back,_ of rescue. But. He is so tired. 

Erik isn't sure he has anything left to offer his demon in trade for an escape from here, anyway. Not after everything that has happened. He isn't sure he has a soul left. Herr Doktor, in his exalted moods, had tried to persuade Erik that they were gods among insects. But if Erik was a god, he had not been able even to save his own mother, and if Schmidt was a god, he had still died screaming and begging, wallowing in his own blood and piss. He yawned. Did gods yawn? He has avenged his mother's death and killed well, arranged the death, of his tormentor. 

_Even if the demon refuses to deal with him further, it's more than he had hoped for when he began. His eyes close. Erik's head tilts sideways._

_He doesn't even notice falling asleep._

_\-------------_

If Erik had been awake to look at him smiling now, he would have noticed how sharp his demon's teeth are. But he isn't. Charles stops washing his hands, and considers his sleeping boy, slowly. So young. So determined. Really, he would have enjoyed thanking the person who guided Erik into calling for Charles, if he had been real. Of course, his name is not really Charles, but he has been Charles for so long now, and he quite likes the name. It seems so pleasant, so reliable. So _English._ Like tea. He likes the sound of it in human mouths. Especially Erik's. Such a nice voice, his boy has. 

Now. What to do? They could deal again. Or he could offer Erik a contract. He hopes the boy won't want anything tiresome and exhausting, like laying waste to the camp, or killing Hitler. It's not that these things aren't beyond Charles' abilities to achieve, or beyond Erik's ability to pay for, but they will require paperwork. Effort. And the modes and means of payment will spoil his delightful Erik completely. _Hmm._ He is a demon. He lives to hurt, to spoil, to destroy. Once, in a time he does not think about, when he was someone he does not remember, he lived to nurture and create. 

Now, even thinking about committing an altruistic act makes him feel slightly ill. The closer he comes to helping someone, the more his demonic nature punishes him. So how can he keep Erik alive, and _his,_ and _amusing?_ A pretty puzzle. Erik shifts in his sleep, mumbling. Outside, the guards change again. They aren't thinking of how long the Herr Doktor has been locked in his lab. They aren't thinking of how long the boy has been out of sight. They're good guards; they're not thinking of anything at all. Charles rather likes them. He decides they can live. And then, just like that, the idea comes to him. Stealing is _definitely_ a sin. 

Charles laughs out loud, delightedly. Erik does not stir. The demon professor bends and plucks the sleeping boy from the floor. Although Erik has grown tall in the camps, he's no great weight, and Charles carries him easily. His head nestles into the crook of Charles' shoulder as if it had been shaped for it. However hard Charles tries, something of his first nature always bleeds through. It's true for most demons, whether born, bred or fallen. That's why his Raven always eats her kills, and why she usually hunts rapists and pedophiles. It's why he is a collector of a few fine pieces, why Azazel is a harvester of many. He glances at the bloody heap on the long table, and it obediently bursts into flame. The fire spreads to the whole of the room very quickly. Charles walks through the curtain of leaping flame with Erik in his arms. He sidesteps through the shadows deftly. 

They are gone before the first wisps of smoke can creep under the door and alert anyone. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is not in Hell. He is in America. Charles makes a bet with his sister. Raven eats pedophiles.

Erik isn't actually sure he's woken up yet. He fell asleep in a blood spattered laboratory in a death camp; he's awoken in a huge bed in some beautiful mansion that is probably nowhere in Europe. He rolls off the four poster and heads for the window. Outside the sun pours down on beautiful lawns and carefully tended flower beds. Has Charles taken him to England? Or- and a sudden, clenching fear pours into him- has his demon taken him to Hell? If the Devil is English, is Hell England?

“I'm a demon, not the devil, dear boy. And no, we are not in Hell. Or even England, which some people say is even worse.”  
Erik whirls from the window to stare at Charles, who has changed from one terrible cardigan to another. This one is blue.  
“How did you know what I was thinking? Are you using your demon magic on me?” He demands, frantic with... something that is only partially fear. He doesn't let himself think about what else it might be.  
“Oh. No, not magic.” He taps his left temple, cheerfully. “I've always been able to read minds. Even before...” He stops, sharply, and moves to stand next to Erik at the window. There is a brief silence. 

Erik finds himself shifting from foot to foot, thinking of half a dozen questions he wants to ask. Questions like “Where are we?” or “Are you going to eat me?”, “Is this real, am I dead?”, “What do you mean, before?” He wonders which is safest to ask. Charles frowns and rubs his forehead.  
“Really, young Erik, you do have...” Erik flinches, hunching his shoulders. “What's wrong now?”  
“I.. Young Erik. Or little Erik... Before, before you came, that was what he c-called m-me.” He can't help the stutter, even as he hates himself for giving in to weakness like this. 

Remembering Schmidt is dead and can't hurt him again is strangely difficult, even after all he saw in lab, even here, so far and away from anything he's used to. The demon professor's face softens.  
“Ah, well, in order, the answers to your many, many questions are: Westchester; no, thank you, yes it is, and no you're not. I trust this explains everything?” He sounds quite hopeful. Erik clings onto the practicalities. He can work pout the rest later.  
“Where's Westchester?  
“There's always something...” mutters his demon, fretfully. His face brightens. “You're in America. Now. Do you want breakfast?” Erik's stomach fairly roars to life then, and he nods, feverishly.

The kitchen is large, clearly more a workroom for a cook than a family's homely refuge. He's not sure why he's here. It seems as if there is more food on the kitchen table than Erik has seen in his entire life. Certainly enough to feed everyone in the camp for a meal, anyway, Erik thinks, and represses a guilty wish he could send it there. The demon serves him a tiny portion of scrambled egg, and and insists he drink all his orange juice and try the fruit salad.  
“I'd give you more, dear boy, but human digestion is a very funny thing. Eat too much too soon after eating too little for too long and you can die!” He explains to Erik, cheerfully. 

Erik carefully doesn't think about how he could have learnt that, focusing instead on the incredible tastes and textures flowing over his tongue and into his hungry belly. It tastes so good, and no one is likely to take it from him. The professor's miraculous tea cup has appeared again, this time accompanied by a matching pot, and cake. Erik is wondering about asking the professor if he's allowed more grapes, or to know why he's here, when the back door bangs open and an angry naked blue woman storms in. She pulls up sharply when she sees him, staring. Erik freezes where he sits. Something tells him: this woman is dangerous. Perhaps it's the red hair. Or the blue skin. Or the sharp, sharp teeth.  
“Raven, dearest, please put some clothes on” The professor sounds testy.  
“Why?” she almost spits her question, staring at Erik as if she's wondering what he'll taste like. A hint of iron enters his demon's face and voice.

“Because I wouldn't like our guest to be distracted.” he says, firmly. She pouts, and then she seems to... ripple, and suddenly, she is completely clothed. In blue. Erik breathes out. That was unexpected. Maybe she has a wardrobe like Charles' tea set.  
“Thank you, sister. Erik, this is my sister, Raven. Raven this is my... This is Erik.” They nod at each other. Erik wonders if Raven is also a demon. It seems likely, what with the blue, and the sister and all. There is another short staring match between the two siblings, ending when Raven snorts and sits at the table, sulkily. She ignores all the food on the table, instead pulling a lump of mysterious dried meat out of her pocket and gnawing at it. Erik refrains from speculating; he doesn't want to know.

“Did you have a good hunt?” Charles inquires, mildly. He pours his sister a cup of tea; she frowns but sighs and takes it without further comment when Charles stares at her, blandly.  
“Not bad. Only one pedophile, though.” Raven wrinkles her nose. Erik concentrates on his last strawberry firmly. He does _not_ want to know. He really hopes she is a demon, now.  
“Pity.” Charles seems almost as disappointed as Raven.  
“I know. Rapists taste so bland.” Erik stares at the last of the meat clutched in Raven's fist, and tries not to shudder. Her eyes flick to him curiously, then back to her brother.

“You could branch out? Have you thought about murderers?” his demon offers, helpfully.  
“No. I like a good chase and a good kill. Most murderers are too stupid. Dull. How old are you, Erik?” She shoots the question at him so sharply he answers without thinking.  
“I was fourteen last month, I think.” There is no warning. Less than five seconds after the words have come out of his mouth, Raven has snatched a knife from the table and driven it through Charles' hand, pinning him to the table. She yanks his demon's head back, baring his throat. He ineffectually scrabbles at her face with his free hand. 

“We agreed; no children! Fourteen is a child!” she hisses, and stabs him again, this time in the side, with the butter knife. The professor howls in pain.  
“Nnn- aarrgh! Raven! I never touched him! It was a single deal. He summoned me!” He gasps. She snarls, and moves to bite his neck. He cries out again. Erik is on his feet, hand outstretched. The knife pinning Charles' hand flies upwards, forcing Raven's blue face away from his demon's neck. She gapes at it, then at Erik, stunned.  
“Stop hurting him! He helped me!” Erik yells.  
“Explain.” she orders curtly, still staring lethally at Charles.

“I wanted to kill the man who killed my mother. He came to the camp when I ..called. And killed him.” Erik is shaking. This has all happened so fast, and all he can remember is that Charles helped him. Killed Schmidt. Took him away from the camp. Fed him. Erik doesn't want to see him hurt. She gives him a long stare, and then yanks the butter knife out of her brothers' ribs. He yelps.  
“All right. No contract, no sex with a child. You didn't break the agreement. ” She admits, grudgingly to her brother.  
“Thank you, Raven. Don't look so alarmed, Erik, I'm perfectly fine.” He smooths away the bite on his neck. “See?”

Erik throws up.

\------------

Erik huddles on the floor, miserably ashamed of his loss of control, and feeling guilty about the waste of food it had produced. He fought back the terror that using his gift produced. He felt sick, cold, clammy and shaking. He tried to fight down another wave of fear that he was getting ill. Getting ill before had always been dangerous. Above his head, Raven and Charles were having a silent argument again. Suddenly Charles burst out into speech. Erik listened hard, being fairly sure they were discussing him.

“No, he is not a pet!” Raven snorted. Definitely discussing him, then. “I just think he has a lot of potential.” _Charles did?_  
 “Charles, you know you can’t keep him as he is. It won’t work. You always break your toys, and then you get upset.” Raven sounded weary, almost sad.  
“I know! I’m perfectly sure he’s corruptible!” Erik’s demon protested. Raven snarled again. “When he is an adult and able to be _truly_ enthusiastic about it, of course!” He added hastily. Raven smiled.  
   
 _Oh,_ thinks Erik miserably. Of course. He knew he was ruined ,in soul, long ago, really. When he couldn’t save his mother, probably. Some of the things Schmidt had made him do, too. There could be no forgiveness for those things. Erik knew he had to be damned long before he summoned a demon. Maybe he deserved to die in the camps.  
 “Is it because I’m weak? Because of Schmidt?” he rasps through his sore throat. Both demons’ eyes flash towards him; Erik suspects they forgot he was there. “I thought… because of my gift, maybe I never had a soul. Schmidt used to say we were gods.” He mumbles. Raven moves around the table towards him. Erik flinches, and she stops.

Charles crouches down and tilts his chin up, so Erik has to look him straight in his blue, blue eyes.  
 “Schmidt was a coward and a fool who enjoyed finding excuses to hurt you.” Charles states, bluntly. Raven growls, very faintly. Erik glanced away from Charles, and realised she was kneeling next to him.  
“You have a soul, Erik. Every human does. And no matter what that fool told you before I killed him, you are human." He smiles, xcrookedly. "Trust me, I can tell”  
“I thought I was ruined already.” Erik mumbles. Charles’s hand under his chin won’t let him look away.  
   
“Oh. no, Erik. No.” Says his demon, gently. “You are not ruined, as you put it. Not at all.” You are young, you have hope and empathy and insight.”  He coughs. “I am very very good at evaluating humans, Erik. There is strength in you. Passion. Will. You have a great capacity for good or evil, Erik. I have seen it.” He releases Erik’s chin in time for him to hide his tears.  
“And I can tell you’re stubborn.” Raven interjects “In fact, dear brother, I think you’d have a terrible job trying to seduce him to evil.”  
“I can seduce anyone!” protests Charles, waving his tea cup indignantly. Raven laughs, wildly. Erik blinks.

“Want to bet? Raven says, daringly.  
“Yes!” Charles sounds far, far too smug. Clearly the only thing Raven can do is to put him in a headlock and knuckle his scalp. “Ah… Ow! _Raven!_ I bet you Erik will fall to darkness in his lifetime! Ow!” He winces. Erik fidgets.  
“Accepted! I bet he will remain upright and noble!”  
 She knuckles his head a few more times, for good measure, then flops into her chair and raises her teacup. Charles clinks his against it, and they drink a toast together. 

The skinny starveling boy Charles pulled out of a death camp stares at them with wide, wide eyes. Raven smiles at him. Clearly the next few years are going to be _fun._  
 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short and silly, becuase I stuffed it full of cameos. Demonic behaviour returns in the next one, OK?

And so it begins. 

Erik understands; they don’t really want to help him; they aren’t really looking after him. He is a pawn, the object of a bet between two demons. Whoever wins, Erik will lose. It doesn’t worry him that much. Either he will be virtuous, and alive, or he will be evil, and alive. The main thing is, he will be _alive._ Compared to his options before Charles invited himself in, Erik’s life is like Heaven compared to Hell. Charles is intrigued by his gift with metal, but lets him develop his powers by himself.  

When the nightmares come, or the shaking and the tears start, Erik’s demon is somehow almost always there. When he is not, Raven is. Slowly his nights get better. They don’t send him to school for the first year.   
“Too much catching up to do, my dear boy” murmurs his demon, and Raven snorts.   
“You just don’t like letting your toys out of your sight, dear brother.” And Charles flushes, before finding something he claims he absolutely _has_ to do in Oxford. It takes him a week. Erik finds he misses him.  
   
Oddly- or not so oddly, given that Charles seems to think that a cup of tea cures _everything_ \- it is Raven who monitors his health. He’s not as badly malnourished as some of those in the camp, but Schmidt’s tender treatment of him has left Erik with a few lingering problems. Raven feeds him like clockwork, takes him for walks daily, and generally behaves almost like a little girl with an exciting new pet. He tries to be bothered, and fails.  
   
Erik learns alone in the great library of the mansion for a while, and then Azazel begins to produce tutors for him. Some of them are very strange. He likes Mr Kuryakin, his solemn and strict Russian teacher. He also likes his science tutor, Miss Shaw. She’s English, and Azazel calls her Elizabeth and likes making her blush. She is completely unfazed by Azazel’s form. Erik suspects she can’t actually see it. Azazel himself teaches Erik self defence, which starts out as reacting fast enough to avoid being teleported into the lake, and ends with all out no-holds-barred attempts to kill each other. It’s fantastic. Once, Erik manages, with the aid of a handy tree limb and a tin cup, in giving him a black eye.

Azazel sulks for a week. Erik learns French from Raven. It turns out Charles shoved a complete grasp of the English language into his brain within two seconds of laying eyes on him, as his demon doesn’t like speaking German or Polish. Howver,. Charles refuses to to the same thing with ant other language. Those he practises with Azazel. He learns to appreciate the glories of geography and literature from a Miss Eyre and a Miss Next, both of them very unusual ladies indeed.

 His history tutors are the strangest. A wildly and weirdly dressed succession of men, all called Doctor John Smith, they clearly have some complicated family relationship with each other, which means sometimes they pretend to have met him before when Erik knows he has never laid eyes on them, and sometimes they have clearly been passing notes on him, because they will refer to past lessons as if they were there, when it was another Doctor Smith taking them. At least twice, one or other of them apparently forgets they’ve met before.  
   
Raven teaches him anatomy, biology and botany. She uses the bodies of her kills; Erik now knows far more than he wants to about the internal workings of child abusers and so, by relation, humans in general. Also five undetectable ways of poisoning people with common plants. He hopes it will never come in useful.  
   
Charles refuses to teach him anything, except the proper way of making tea.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spot the cameos! Go, on spot them all!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik hits High school, High School hits back

Erik is sure he’s not going to like high school. It’s been years since he went to school, and they threw him out of that one because he was Jewish. He can remember former classmates spitting as he went past them in the street. It’s unlikely that these new classmates will be quite so blunt, but still. It’s not going to be fun. The worst of it is, he doesn’t want to tell Charles. It seems ridiculous, worrying about hurting the feelings of a demon, but there it is. He does. And Charles has been so happy, getting him his books and mind controlling his teachers into believing they are cousins, and Erik has arrived in the USA (a) legitimately and (b) recently.

So Erik squares his shoulders and does his best to grin manfully and feel excited.  
The first day is hard. Everyone stares, stupid people ask stupid questions, and the food is disgusting, even to Erik’s taste buds, which have survived Raven’s cooking. No, he has never seen Hitler, or Stalin, or Churchhill. Yes, he likes America. (He reserves his judgement about Americans, though.) No, he doesn’t play football. Yes, he likes cars. And so on. He tries out for sports, but the thought of Raven or Charles or Azazel sitting in the bleachers and cheering him on, means he does not try too hard. He doesn’t get picked for any of the teams. The lessons are easy enough, or interesting enough, and the teachers are all sane, or at least saner then his tutors were. He studies hard. Gets good marks, and the reputation of being a good worker (teachers) and bit of a nerd (pupils).  
   
It is this, along with the good weather, which gets him into trouble. Some of the football players, the jocks, have been resenting the way he gets good marks, making them look stupid, apparently. The weather is hot. Erik would wear a short sleeved shirt, or a T shirt, but his tattoo would be immediately visible. He doesn’t feel like answering stupid questions about it. So he wears button downs. Long sleeved shirts. Any button down shirt in the vicinity of Charles soon finds itself neatly ironed if it knows what’s good for it. Erik likes the crisp cotton against his skin, but the jocks jeer. Erik ignores them. He has lived under the Nazis, a couple of comments about being a prissy Kraut fag are not going to bother him. Nor are a few thrown pens, spit balls or stupid notes. They can’t get into his locker- no one can, apart from him, unless they come prepared with a blow torch and a can opener.

Half the football team standing outside the furnace room, threatening a couple of weedy juniors until they trick him into following them? That does bother him. He stalks along the corridor, feeling the pipes vibrate in sympathy with his tensions, and calculating how long it will take to redo his homework if they damage his bag.  
“What is it?”  
“We’ve tried explaining before Lensherr. Stop working so hard.” Says one of them. Erik immediately dubs him Lazy.  
“Yeah, relax. Have a little fun.” Says another, grabbing the arm of the junior girl they used to decoy him there. “Don’t go anywhere, sweetheart. Party’s just getting started.” She looks near tears, and terrified. Erik decides he can be called Stupid. The others don’t count. He drops his bag to the floor and kicks it into the corner as they flood towards him. Erik’s stance is loose and ready. Thanks to Azazel’s lessons, he thinks they don’t know what they’re doing. Erik does, but that’s a problem too. He could kill them all, but just stopping them will be harder. He stands tall, head up. Waiting. 

The metal in the building quivers anxiously, like a dog wanting to serve its' master.  
   
“Look, nerd, you know you’re making some of us look bad.” Says Lazy, pushing him in the chest. His hand drifts down to feel at Erik’s shirt sleeve. Stupid follows suit.  
Stupid  twists the sleeve., looking at the darker figures showing through the thin cloth. “Is that a _tattoo_ , man?” He sounds incredulous.  
 “Leave it alone.” grunts Erik, trying to pull sleeve and arm out of their grip. He knows it’s a mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth. He sets his teeth, glaring.  
The others join in, pushing at him, trying to trip him

“Is it?” “Is it your girlfriends’ name?”   
“Your momma’s?”  
“I wanna see!”  
The sleeve tears. That is when Erik head butts Stupid, who’s closest, and kicks Lazy at precisely the right point on the side of his knee to incapacitate him. Everything is  a little confused and violent after that. No one could really be said to win; Stupid has a concussion, Lazy will not play football again after Erik shattered his kneecap, and the other jocks are likewise trounced. However, Erik has a black eye, a broken nose and wrist, and he’s fairly sure he’s going to be suspended if not expelled if he doesn’t get to Charles first with the news. No one has connected the broken pipe and subsequent flood with the fight, though. That’s good.  
   
   
Charles’s delightful afternoon with a pot of tea and several good books is completely ruined by his Erik stumbling back from that uncouth High school Raven said he had to go to, battered and bruised. It’s very annoying. He has a hand clasped over his wrist, hiding is tattoo again. Really, Charles doesn’t know why he doesn’t conceal it better.  
 “What’s happened?”  
“Got in a fight.” Erik mumbles, sullenly. Charles tries not to roll his eyes. Teenage attitude. _Delightful._ Just what he wants instead of a biscuit with his tea.  
“I trust the other chap looks worse?” he enquires, archly.

“Two of them do.” Erik says, flatly.  
“Two of them? How many were there?” An  uncomfortable feeling races down Charles’ spine and curdles in his stomach.  
“Five.” Erik cautiously dabs at his spilt lip, and winces. Charles is angry. He is angry on someone else’s behalf. He doesn’t like it. It’s itchy. He redirects it. Someone has damaged his boy. _His._  
“Come here.” he sighs, eventually.

Erik walks, slowly. It’s always a shock to Charles to realise his boy is taller than he is now. Charles is pleased, his boy has grown so tall and strong. He’ll be a man, soon- and his array of temptations will get significantly wider. Erik slumps into the armchair, and Charles bends over him, running light fingers over his face and jaw. Nothing seems too badly damaged. Erik’s eyes glisten, but he does not cry as Charles re sets his nose. He allows the contact, letting Charles in to skim his memories of the fight without a struggle.  
   
Charles is conflicted. Erik is strong, capable of violence, anger and hate. All of this is good. But the bright spark of his spirit which turned Charles’ head when his boy was calling for him the first time, it is still there. There is still hope and compassion and all the bright things which, as a demon, he should not love. As a demon he should not _love_ at all. He cannot kill the children who hurt his boy- Raven will have words with him if he does- so he will settle for ruining their lives. There will be an escalation of this silly little war the American humans are waging in Vietnam, soon. He can see to it they’re all conscripted in it. There. That is a nicely demonic thing to do.  
   
But- and he deliberately thinks of other things now- his boy is in pain. He will not fix the physical injuries; Erik must learn to rely on himself for healing, but he can deal with root cause of his boy’s discomfort. The tattoo can be hidden more effectively than with cloth or a hand. Charles takes Erik’s hand in both of his, and whispers  
“Let me show you a trick.” He drops his head, and breathes warm air over Erik’s forearm. Erik’s hand twitches in his, and he can see the goose bumps rising on Erik’s skin  
“Wha-“ slurs Erik. He sounds almost drunk.

“Now you see it-“ He smoothes his hand over Erik’s forearm. Erik breathes in as if he has been punched. “Now you don’t” He snaps his fingers. Erik jumps. Charles laughs. Erik shakes off the tingling sensation and stares. At his unblemished, number free arm. He runs a finger across the newly blank space, and frowns. He can still feel the raised scar tissue, the difference between ink marked and clean skin. He just can’t see it.  
 “What-“  
“There, I fixed it. Now you can wear short sleeves and punch people without having to answer awkward questions!” 

Charles looks so pleased. Erik feels has if someone has replaced his brain with melted wax. He gapes. “And, of course I’ll have a little word with the principal of your school.”  
“Uh… you will?”  
“He’s an old friend. Or…” Charles looked thoughtful. “He will be. Or I’ll kill him. Tea?”  
He passes Erik a cup. Erik drinks.  
 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik broods. Charles broods. Raven and Azazel canoodle.

 Erik is sitting in the wood, near the lake, where Charles never goes, in the rain. Well, in the damp. It has been raining, and the overcast nature of the sky indicates that it probably will happen again soon. But the weather, like everything else, refuses to co operate for Erik’s need for his misery to be reflected in his surroundings.  
 There is a soft bamfing noise behind him, and he can smell sulphur.  
“Hello, Azazel.” He says, without looking round. Azazel doesn’t bother with a greeting, simply shoves him further along the fallen tree and pushing the vodka bottle into his hand.  
“What’s wrong, _Wetten_?” he enquires, genially enough.   
“Nothing.” Erik scowls a little more. 

Azazel has called him Wetten or other words that translate as bet since Raven had told him why Erik was being kept around. It’s annoying.  
 “Yes, so I see. A lot of nothing. Nothing that keeps you out here, sulking in the rain and getting drunk."  
“I’m not sulking!” He wasn’t. He was… contemplating. Yes. Considering his soul.   
“No? Give me my bottle back; I’m not letting you get drunk, either. Raven would have my balls.” Erik sighs, and hands back the vodka. There’s a short, damp, silence.

“I think I’ve lost Raven her bet.” Damn! He hadn’t been expecting to say that. Azazel and his vodka should never be trusted. Said scarlet demon only looks saturnine.  
“And it has been only three years. Curious. Charles is not dancing for joy, so he does not know. Why do you think that?” Erik gathers his strength. This is going to be difficult.  
“I… I think I like men.” There. He has said it, out loud.  
“And?” inquires Azazel, affably. “I like men, sometimes, but that is not why I am demon.”   
“No, I mean I like, like men.” Erik scratches the back of his neck, uncomfortably.

“”Like” like? You are not teenage girl, either.” The red demon is trying not to laugh.  
“I thought… in the Torah, or the Bible… aren’t there laws against it? Doesn’t it make me corrupt?” Erik looks at his boots. There is another brief pause. Erik has never wanted to treat any girl he’s met with anything other than deep, brotherly respect. For some time he had thought that was because of what would happen to him at Raven’s hands- and teeth- if he made a girl cry. It had taken a lot of thinking (mostly about the professor’s behind, and Charles’ eyes, and his demon’s hands if he was really honest) to realise that Raven was not the only reason for it.

Azazel’s eyes narrow.  
   
The next thing Erik knows, he is dangling upside down from a very tall tree. Azazel’s face is opposite his, although it’s the right way up, as Az is sitting on another branch and holding on with his tail. Erik wants to know where Az got the rope he’s tied up with.  
“That is NOT a sin, stupid boy! Love never is!” Erik gurgles. It doesn’t sound like an agreement. Azazel continues. “You can love men, you can love women, you can love fruit!” He taps Erik on the forehead by way of emphasis. Erik sways a little.  
 “But the books say-“  
“They are wrong. Books say many things, Erik Lensherr.” He taps Erik’s forehead again. “You know that.” He doesn’t mention Schmidt, but he doesn’t really have to. “Books that try to tell you your love is wrong, are wrong.  So long as the one you love loves you, all is good.”

“And if they don’t?” Erik gasps. All the blood is rushing to his head, and he’s feeling very dizzy.  
“You leave them be. Or Raven will eat you balls first. Alive if you harm child.” They share a rueful glance of mutual male fear. Raven is terrifying.   
“Oh. Right. Will you let me down now?”  
“Tell me love is not a sin first.”  
“Oh for- Ok. Love is not a sin!”  
   
“Repeat: Men can love men” Says Azazel, and waits.   
“Men can love men.” Erik parrots, obediently. “Let me down!”  
“Women can love women.” Continues Azazel, ignoring his pleas.  
“Women can love women- please Az?”  
“Women can love men who love men.” He’s grinning, now.  
“Women can- Let me down, Az, before I throw up on you!”  
   
There is another rush of sulphur and air, and then they are both standing up, outside Erik’s bedroom. Erik wobbles towards the wall, waiting for the dizziness to pass.  
“Go. Change. Dry clothes will not make you corrupt, either.” He turns to leave, tail swinging jauntily.  
“Az?” He tries to stop his voice wobbling.  
“Da, Wette?”  
“Thanks.” Azazel makes his traditional reaction to being thanked: he hisses, leaps in the air and vanishes. He leaves behind a faint smell of sulphur and Erik, laughing.  
   
\----------------

Erik misses Charles. The professor has got caught up in one of his new fascinations, and is spending a lot of time in Oxford, studying genetics. It’s fascinating to him, these tiny things that make a person or animal who and what they are. Erik is grimly reminded of the Nazis and their fondness for eugenics; Charles tells him why this is wrong and makes him read a very dull thesis he’s writing, on genes and inheritance and mutations. He’s also corrupting students, of course, and lecturers. “I mean, really, my boy, one of them actually offered his soul for a First! Imagine! What he’s going to do for the rest of his life with a qualification he’s not able to live up to, _and_ lacking a soul?” And he’d laughed, delightedly. Erik never did find out if Charles had acquired the soul, or merely given the student extra lessons.

However much fun his demon is having developing other interests, Erik misses him. Az wanders in and out of the mansion on a irregular basis. Raven has cleaned the local area out of rapists and pedophiles, and is commuting further afield for most of her meals and hunts. Sometimes Az goes with her; he pretends to be her pimp when she’s playing the role of child whore, and enjoys dealing with the other pimps and flesh traders. Often quite messily. What with one thing and another, then, Erik is often by himself for the last year of school. He studies well enough to keep the teachers off his back, and the troubles he had at the beginning all died down mysteriously quickly after he concussed the star footballer and shattered the knee of his hulking friend. Both have since dropped out, and there are rumours they joined the Army. Erik doesn’t know for sure.

He’s not completely lonely though- he corresponds by letter with some of his former tutors, especially Mr Kuryakin. None of the John Smiths keep in touch, but Dr Liz Shaw sometimes sends a letter. He’s very popular with some of the girls in school. His habits of listening to them, and respecting their personal boundaries mean he never wants for dates. He should thank Raven, really. He wanders back from a nice evening out with a girl called Magda. She held his hand and told him earnestly about her desire to be a nursery teacher, until he raised an eyebrow, and she told him of her real desire to be an architect. She asked him what he wanted out of life; he could hardly say “My demonic tea obsessed professor.”, but was able to admit to a fascination with metalwork. It was a good evening. Now he just wants a cup of tea- damn Charles for addicting him to it- and a shower before bed.

Erik’s evening is made better by catching Raven and Azazel together, on the couch. He doesn’t actually need to scour his eyes out with bleach this time, either. They are simply curled around each other, snuggling happily on the couch and watching some god-awful soap or other. Az’s tail is wrapped around Raven’s ankle, and her cheek is pressed up against his chest. It’s positively _sweet._ He smirks as he wanders by. “Evening, lovebirds.” Raven makes a sleepy noise and shifts towards Azazel. Az doesn’t even turn his head, simply smiling down at her. Erin grins to himself. Then he’s distracted by tea, and also by his vocabulary. _Lovebirds?_ Clearly his demon has had more of an influence on him than he realises. He looks up from putting the kettle on to find Azazel staring at him from less than a foot away. He drops the teacup.

 

"Damnit, Az!”  
“You did not see that, _Chiche_.” Azazel’s voice is low and deadly.  
“What? You and Raven cuddled up on Charles’ couch?” Erik grunts as he bends to pick up the china shards.  
“Da. That. You did not see it.”  
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Charles you love his sister. I’m sure he won’t find out-argh!!”  
Azazel yanks him by the arm and spins him up against the wall.  
“All right, ok, there’s no need to- I thought you said love was fine!”

“Stupid boy! I said love was not a sin. I said _you_ can love anyone who loves you. Raven and I- we are _demons_. Do you understand? Demons do not, _cannot_ love.”  
“But –“ Erik tries to interrupt, but Azazel continues, hissing urgently into his face  
“Love would kill us. Would kill what we care for in each other. And Raven- she is a made demon. Is harder for her. ” 

"A made demon? What does that mean?" Erik’s brain starts whirring faster.  
“I thought… Raven’s blue. You're red.” He starts, uncertainly. Az sighs, impatiently.  
“She was born shape shifter, not demon. Love is _dangerous_ for her.”  
“She _eats_ people! How can love be dangerous to her?” Erik snaps.  
“She eats rapist and child molester. Charles took her in when she was little blue girl. Centuries ago.” And he, Azazel, has no intention of explaining to Charles’ puling brat just why his blue girl’s diet is what it is. 

“I don’t understand.”  
Azazel stares at him. “Are you truly this foolish, _Chiche?_ Why do you think _you_ are here?” He tugs at Erik’s jacket, and they both move to the kitchen table.  
“Raven bet Charles he couldn’t make me evil. Couldn’t corrupt me.” Erik mumbles. Azazel rolls his eyes.  
"Yes, and what do you think she meant? Become evil enough, bathe in enough blood and sin, under the guidance of a demon and-“ he jerks his hands apart, expressively “– new demon!”

“Oh.” Erik's heart sinks. He hadn't realised Charles was actually trying to turn him into a demon.  
“You do not think you were here, fed and clothed and protected because of Charles’s _good heart,_ did you? You know him too well for that.” Azazel spits.  
“I know he’s a demon!” Erik retorts sharply. “I didn’t know- I thought, I thought… he liked me. Just a little.” Erik is staring at the table now, rubbing obsessively at a scratch there. He knows it’s stupid. Azazel’s face softens.  
“He does. Is different for him. And for me. I- I was born demon. No way back for me. Nothing to go back to. Charles and I, _we_ were never human. Could not have killed your Schmidt if he had been. Terms of contract.”

“But it’s dangerous for Raven?”  
“What’s dangerous for me?” Raven asks, curiously, wandering into the kitchen  
“Too much sleep, not enough running.” Azazel answers immediately. “You will become fat and lazy.” Under the table, his tail gives Erik a warning prod.  
“Really?” she says, slowly “Erik, what do you say?”  
“I… aaah, I um, think you can do whatever you like and still be beautiful?” He offers, hurriedly. Raven is still unnerving, even now, when she is rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

“Da. Beautiful and slow.” Raven snarls at him, he hisses back. Then she leaps at him, over the kitchen table. Az ducks, laughing. He spins as she tries to tear out his throat. There is a sudden bamfing noise, and Azazel is outside the kitchen door. Raven yells as she tears after him.

Behind Erik, the kettle makes a whistling noise as it finally boils. 

Erik is not happy as he makes himself a cup of tea. Not happy at all, he tells himself fiercely. He knows that, even if his… appreciation of Charles’ looks and all his demon has done for him is real, Charles does not, cannot love him. His professor is a demon. He may behave in ways that _feel_ like friendship or affection, but they are not  >love. He knows he should resist this, resist the fall, and not only because he is secretly afraid of Raven’s reaction if he loses her bet for her. But it’s hard. Resisting will eventually bring about a separation between Erik and his demon. Sooner or later, Charles will find someone else, someone seducible. 

The less he falls, the less Charles will be able to tolerate him. Sooner or later their very natures will tear them apart.  
He tries to replace his memory of Charles telling him his soul is untarnished with the memory of his methods creating a death wish in Schmidt. “At the moment, he just wants this to _stop._ ” The demon had explained, cheerfully, as he wielded the scalpel and the Herr Doktor had screamed again. “I need him to want to _die._ ” It doesn’t really help. Charles had heard him when he called, rescued him from despair, and pain, and Schmidt. Had fed him and allowed him somewhere to live, since. Despite his protestations to his sister, these seem to be the only methods he has chosen to “seduce” Erik into evil. Into becoming a demon himself, apparently. 

The trouble is, Erik’s beginning to think it would be a price worth paying, if it meant he got to make Charles happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fanfic is is not really the place for a detailed look at Christian or Jewish attitudes to homosexuality, either now, in the 1960s, or at any other era in history, except to say they vary greatly.   
> The author would not recommend being dangled upside down by a demon as part of your thought processes in this, or indeed, any other area. Azazel is far more likely to drop people who aren’t Erik.  
> The author intended to cause no offence or distress to gay people, Christian people, Jewish people, or any combination thereof. She apologises if she did.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is eighteen. Raven's veto over _certain_ activities comes to an end. Charles acts according to his nature.

Charles can _feel_ his boy _brooding_. Not just the usual teenage self absorption, either. Erik has grown a little restless this last few months. As the end of his school days has arrived, Charles has become more worried. Well, not worried precisely. He's just had growing awareness that the slow approach towards corruption is a method he may have to change. Erik's been usefully selfish and dependent up until now, accepting the shelter and schooling on offer like the thoughtless child he's been until now. Well, that's not _quite_ right. Something twists in his chest when he thinks of the boy like that. His Erik is not selfish, and he's not been a thoughtless child since the moment Charles first laid eyes on him, squatting terrified in that cell years ago. But Charles and Azazel and Raven are demons. They can't have given him a home, or shelter. They _can't._ It doesn't _work_ like that.

Observing his boy staring at his tea, Charles thinks it may be time for a decisive move. If Erik is going to leave him, leave them, he should know that's what he is doing. Charles doesn't want to just let him drift away after Nazis, even if that's a good place to start down the paths of darkness. That is, as long as Erik _is_ planning on killing them. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't aware Erik was out of the protective shelter of childhood now. He'd been of age for that long at least. Raven would not have eaten him if he'd slept with Erik since last summer, providing it was something Erik had asked for. Erik hadn't though, and Charles hadn't wanted to risk arousing his interest in carnal activities until he was sure that Erik's interest would be focused on _him._ The possibility of losing control of his boy had been too terrible a prospect.   
Until now, when the idea of Erik leaving seems worse.

He's delighted by how wide and dark Erik's eyes go when Charles seizes his belt. The unsteadiness of his steps is matched by the the unsteadiness of his thoughts. Charles finds it almost endearing. Really, he should have done this some time ago. Erik makes the most delightful sounds. His face, twisted in pleasure is likewise fascinating to watch. It's a little hard to do from this angle, certainly. Charles decided that the next thing they do won't include blow jobs. He closes his eyes and hums, happily. Above him, Erik writhes and whimpers. _Delicious_.

Erik makes such pretty noises. Really, Charles could make a symphony out of them. And art out of his eyes, so wide, so dark and so, so desperate. Charles loves his reflection in them. His cock does, too. Patience, he tells himself. He wants Erik's first times to be searingly good. Oh, his Erik has a _smart_ mouth. Charles makes a note to teach him how to utilise it in other ways, later. Charles' neglected cock sends a few suggestions, which he ignores, temporarily. He urges Erik onto his side. Although he enjoys sex as much as the next demon, taking Erik apart piece by piece is more rewarding right now. 

He slicks up his hand. He does like these modern fancies, like Vaseline. He remembers when all you had was animal fat, or lamp oil, or similar. This is much nicer. Erik's strangled whimpers turn into full blown moans and cries as Charles tries first one finger, and then one more, and one more. Erik's cries turn sharper and more desperate once Charles locates his prostate. Charles grins to himself. Charles grits his teeth as he slides in, coaxing himself into Erik slowly and gently. Erik is so _hot_ and tight, it's almost as glorious as the noises his boy- his _man_ , now, he supposes, is making . He feels hopeful. Surely, after this, Erik will want to stay his? Surely _this_ will keep him close to Charles?

\------------------------------

Erik is still mulling Azazel's revelations over when Charles wanders into the kitchen: if he becomes a demon; will Charles want him? Will he be able to care for Charles as he does now? Precisely how _much_ blood does he have to bathe in? Is the blood metaphorical? Does wanting to hunt Nazis count as _evil_ anyway?  
“Is there any tea left?” Inquires Charles affably. Erik twitches. Charles' mind reading is a bit hit and miss. Often he reads things he cannot understand and requires explanations Erik finds hard to give, which is embarrassing. But he can hardly have missed that last one.

Quietly Charles pours himself tea, fusses with his milk and sugar then sits next to Erik. Erik can feel the warmth his body is putting out.  
“So.” Charles takes a sip of tea, slow and deliberate. “You're thinking about killing Nazis?” He fixes Erik with his bright blue eyes. Erik's gut rolls, slowly and nastily. Charles is not pleased about something.  
“Um. Hunting them. Yeah?” He wishes it sounds less like he's asking for permission.

“And you're aware this hunt might take you all over the world? Away from that... High school?” _Away from me,_ Charles doesn't say. His mouth makes a sad shape.  
“I've graduated, Charles. Almost.” _Not that that matters,_ he doesn't say. Charles is nothing like a parent, but sometimes Erik is uncomfortably aware of how much Charles' approval means to him.  
“And college?” his professor enquires, delicately.  
“I wouldn't be going to Oxford, anyway." Erk shrugs.  
“But I'm going to be a professor _there!_ ” whines Charles. Good God, his demon is _pouting_. 

Over Erik wanting to go to another university. Or is it about him moving out of Charles's influence? He wishes he knew.  
“I need to do this, Charles.” He does, he does need to do this. Despite the years and the life he's lived since, there are still times when the memory of grey: grey faces, grey mud, grey uniforms steal his sleep. He needs to do _something_ ; he needs to keep Charles, and himself, and hunting Nazis would work. Charles sets his teacup down, deliberately.  
“I'm not sure you can be relied on to discern your _needs_ , Erik. Not all of them.” He rests his hand on Erik's arm, just above his magically hidden tattoo.  
Erik's mouth is suddenly very dry. He swallows, but it doesn't seem to help.

“What do you mean?” He can't think it, not even what he's dreamed of, from time to time, not with Charles' hot blue gaze swallowing his thoughts, not with Charles' hand on his arm, on his skin.  
“Come with me and I'll show you.” Charles tugs on his belt, playfully. Dazed, Erik surges to his feet, stumbling after Charles. Charles backs towards the corridor, keeping his grip on Erik's belt. He laughs. Erik tries to summon up a laugh, but he only manages a dry chuckle. He wants this, even if he's not sure what _this_ is.

\--------------

Charles is sucking his cock. This was _not_ something he thought his demon would try, Erik thinks, dazedly. He's sprawled out on Charles' bed, watching Charles' head bob up and down. And feeling... _oh god_ , what he's feeling. Charles' hands are deft and clever, his tongue is, well, demonically, talented, and his mouth, ohhh, it's so hot and wet. He tries to say something, thanks, or a protest, or maybe just Charles' name, but all that emerges is a frantic and indecipherable whimper. Charles lets him slide out of his mouth, and grins- his teeth look sharper than ever from this angle- when Erik moans in wordless protest. Erik curses, loudly and at length when he starts sucking again. 

He comes in a blinding rush, more intense than he's ever managed with his own hand, and lies staring at the canopy of the four poster above him.  
 _“Fstgl”_ he tells the canopy. He clears his throat and tries again. “That's... an interesting argument, Charles. but I don't think...”  
“Hardly an _entire_ argument, my dear boy.” Charles crawls up the bed, moving like a predatory cat. “More like an introductory point.” He runs a hand along Erik's bare flank, thoughtfully. Erik tries not to shiver. He turns his head to catch Charles' gaze. Charles smiles at him. “Would you like to hear some of my... Mmmm, more _detailed_ points?”  
Would he? “Oh, god, please. Yes.” croaks Erik, submerged in Charles' eyes. “Please.”

“Very well. Pay attention, my friend” he breathes into Erik's ear, sending further shivers racing down Erik's spine. “And we'll begin.” Charles runs his tongue across his lips. Erik gulps, and goes under again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik thinks Charles really is going to kill him. Raven asks a significant question. Charles returns from shopping.

Opening his eyes, Erik gazes at the canopy above him. It’s morning. Again. At some point he has melted the clock- and the bedside lamp, and the frame of the mirror. However light from the window tells him it’s daytime, if not the exact hour, and he resolves to blame Charles if anyone complains about this wanton destruction of other people’s property. He feels thirsty and he’s a little sore, but he’s neither sweaty nor sticky. Charles must have cleaned him up again after he finally passed out. He looks around; for whatever reason, Charles is nowhere to be found. He’s half pleased, half sad about that. His stomach rumbles and Erik decides to make a break for it before Charles returns and looks at him, with his eyes, and he can’t think any more.   
   
He has to leave the bedroom _sometimes._ Erik is sure Charles knows that on some level, but the evidence suggests Charles’ enthusiasm has outweighed his common sense, these past couple of days. Not that common sense is exactly Charles’ guiding star. Or his, Erik reluctantly concludes. He swigs from the glass of water Charles has kindly left him, and staggers from the bed. He fumbles into boxers and jeans, wincing slightly as the materiel slides over chafed, oversensitive skin and bite marks. Charles had proved unexpectedly fond of biting him; he’d done his best to return the favour, but Charles’ milky pale skin didn’t hold the bruising as well as his did. Demonic stamina is much greater than human, apparently. Erik thought Charles might have been cheating with that.  
   
Erik wills away the twitch in his groin at the memories. Charles has played with him so thoroughly it’s going to be some time before he’s able to enjoy any more _games_. Charles had been _insatiable_ in his appetite for giving Erik pleasure; Erik was honestly afraid that it was going to kill him by sheer exhaustion if not over use. He can’t bother to work out where his T shirt got to, and shambles off to the kitchen on rubbery legs that aren’t quite working as well as he needs them to. He spurns the idea of socks, more importantly; he spurns the idea of bending over to put socks on. So jeans are all he manages. It’s a perfectly acceptable level of dress in a household that includes Raven, anyway.  
   
The kitchen has never seemed so far away. He’s aching all over again by the time he gets there. He pours himself orange juice and cereal. Toast and coffee seem like unattainable dreams; he’ll attempt the coffee maker after initial fluids and nourishment have been achieved. The coffee maker is inhabited by a minor imp of perversity anyway; possibly because Charles only drinks tea, and Az prefers his vodka to coffee. Raven breezes in as he’s halfway through his cereal. She’s wearing a flowing dress, for once, although her feet are still bare and her skin is still blue. She floats in humming, only to freeze sharply as she spots Erik slowly eating his breakfast. Erik freezes too. Raven moves over to him. She tilts Erik's head to one side, gently, glaring at the hickeys scattered over his chest. She puts her face up against his neck and sniffs, deeply. 

The hairs go up on Erik’s neck as she whines. Raven never whines.“Do I have to eat Charles?” she demands, plaintively  
“Don’t you dare!” he growls back at her. He’s almost as surprised as she is by the level of protective rage in his voice. There's a pause, and then Raven smiles.  
“Huh. Have fun?”  
“I… Uh, yes.” Erik replies in a small voice, because really, talking about the marathon of sex you’ve just had with your demon to his sister is not his idea of a good time. Also, he’s very slightly afraid for his balls. Not because of anything in particular. Raven just does this to him under most circumstances. She smirks at him, and begins her daily battle with the coffee machine. Erik thinks he might just propose when she sets the first cup of black fragrant life juice at his elbow, along with a plate of toast; instead of taking the whole pot back outside with her, as she sometimes does. He looks up from his first blissful mouthful to find her looking at him, golden eyes thoughtful. He blinks.  
   
“This doesn’t change who he is to you, you know.”  
“I know. He’s still a demon as well as my personal demon, I guess.” Raven grins, lightning quick. He can’t stop himself smiling back at full beam. She looks a little stunned; Erik supposes the sight of all his teeth _is_ a little startling. He doesn’t say that this hasn’t changed anything. Erik still loves Charles; if anything more so than before they touched. Erik still knows Charles cannot love him. It’s just now he finds it harder to care. As long as Charles stays with him, stays interested in him, even a little, Erik cannot bring himself to care about cost or consequences.  
   
Erik is still determined to start hunting for Nazis, though. For one thing, he needs to avenge his family’s suffering. Schmidt may have paid for the death of his mother, but Erik had aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, even a country before the Nazis came to power and took it all away. For another thing, Erik knows he needs a reason to get out of bed, get out of the house, or Charles is simply going to _kill_ him. He’s relentless, Charles is, when he’s found something new to have fun with. Not a bad way to go, Erik thinks, but really, he’d rather stay alive for a while longer, and Charles keeps forgetting about human versus demon stamina.  
   
He’s finished the toast, and the coffee and juice, and is thinking about trying some fruit, when Charles wanders in, carrying a large bag, and beaming. Erik tenses up slightly; that’s not always a good combination. Raven smiles, kisses her brother on the top of his head and drifts away, humming. “Ah, there you are Erik! Would you like a pastry?” Charles drops his favourite- a bearclaw- on his empty toast plate, and sits down opposite him. Erik exhales. _Distance is good_ , he reminds himself. _Distance is good_. Erik chews at the bearclaw and watches the bag with some trepidation. Charles blinks back at him, sipping his tea almost innocently. He nibbles at an Eccles cake. 

“What’s in the bag?" Erik asks, politely.  
“Oh I’ve found this wonderful little shop. Full of _amazing_ things!” Charles enthuses. “Look! Beautiful silk rope, and it matches your eyes!” He pulls out a length of it, presumably to demonstrate. Some of the other "amazing things" tumble out onto the table, too. Erik’s bearclaw drops from his suddenly nerveless hand. Charles really is going to kill him, Erik thinks. He finds it very hard to care.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some hand waved amount of years later, the Demon and his Devotee Nazi hunting team get into a bit of a pickle.

Erik cannot deny that Charles does make tracking down former Nazis easier. His mind reading comes up with useful information, sometimes without leaving the interrogated victim a drooling hulk. “I’m too curious.” He’d admitted the third time it had happened. “I see all the little hints and I want to push too deep. And that’s bad for them.” He can transport himself and another around the world without the need for irritating minor details like passports or tickets. Shadow walking or mind whammying people into thinking they’ve been paid are neither of them as instantaneous as Azazel’s gift, but the scarlet demon has proved strangely uninterested in hunting and killing ex-Nazis. And Raven, as always, sticks to her rapists and pedophiles.

But sometimes, as much as he loves his demon, Erik also wants to _strangle_ him. Like _now,_ for instance. They’re in a a strip club, trying to track down money laundering leads. The people who laundered the money took it from former concentration camp guards, who took it from the camps, who took it from the prisoners. The men here are hardened criminals, dangerous to annoy or amuse. And Charles _will not stop_ talking about genetics to them. His part time job has become his other fascination- sleeping with Erik still being his favourite. But he’s here, cheerfully babbling on about the codes behind red hair and blue eyes to men who look as if they could snap him in half and use his bones to pick their teeth. The women are _worse_. 

Erik represses a shudder. If Charles gets himself threatened with harm by these people, Erik is going to have to step in, or Charles will in all likelihood, _eat them alive._ Quite possibly literally, he’s skipped lunch. Again. And that will cost Erik sweat, possibly blood and certainly most of the goodwill he’s built up here. It’s frustrating in the extreme. He closes his eyes, briefly, and thinks about wrapping his hands around his demon’s throat. _Again._ Of _course,_ Charles is more dangerous than all of them, including Erik, put together. That’s hardly the point. The point is, he doesn’t _look_ dangerous, and he and Erik need the information these men have;. More importantly they need them alive and sane, so they can keep track of the money flow. Charles doesn’t have the fear or respect of this group, and earning it would be messy and unrewarding.

Charles comes up to him now, more cheerful than a dog on a walk, and says, entirely _too happily_ for Erik's blood pressure:  
“Good news!”  
“What?” Erik growls.  
“Joe’s boy has decided to go to college after all!” Erik bites his tongue. He wishes he could bite Charles’ tongue but no, not where they currently are. There would be repercussions from those in the room who did not have the benefit of Azazel’s wisdom when younger.  
“Who is Joe, and is it relevant?” he sighs.

“Joe is the delightful man who owns this fine establishment.” Erik rolls his eyes  
“No, seriously, Erik, it is good news. Education is always important, and Joe wasn’t sure it was a good idea, but now-“  
“And does any of this careers guidance help _us?”_  
“Oh, yes, that too. Joe’s boy is also his runner. He can give us several contacts; and he will because-” and here Charles leans in, grinning delightedly “-I think they _like_ me. Or you, I’m not sure.” Of course they _like_ him. He’s as charming as a basket of puppies, and he looks about as harmless. Erik sighs, long-sufferingly.   
“How drunk are you?” A slight frown crosses Charles’ happy face. He holds up a finger.

"'M not drunk. M’ a demon. Demons aren’t incap- capac incope- disabled by alcohol!” He pokes Erik in the chest for good measure. Erik catches the wayward hand in his.  
“Very. Drunk.” He grits out. Charles sways a little, and blinks at him. Erik sighs. Well, at least Joe’s runner could give them some info later. Right now it is obvious his satanic professor has been defeated by the local moonshine. “You couldn’t have stuck to your tea?”  
“But you said we had to-” a cunning look creep across Charles’ face as he glances about dramatically “-blend in!”  
“Yes, you’re doing a good job of that, I can see.” Erik grits out.

A woozy look of incomprehension passes over Charles’ face, and then he does something truly startling. He passes out. Erik catches his demon as Charles slumps, eyes closed, into his arms. Erik resists the temptation to drop him, and curses, quietly. He looks up to catch the disapproving face of Sue, the waitress. She works in one of the roughest joints in the city; but she hates swearing and drunkenness. Go figure.   
“Sorry. Looks like he’s still not up to your good stuff. I’ll get him home before he throws up.” She smiles, slightly, and hands him a packet of painkillers.  
“I’ll call you boys a cab. Tell him to stay off Mike’s liquor in future. He traps all the new fish with it.” Erik thanks her, but she dismisses it with a wave, and trots off to serve more cheap beer.

Getting Charles’ limp form up the stairs to their lodgings proves a bit of a challenge, as the demon is still completely unconscious. In the end Erik simply clenches his jaw, and slings Charles over his shoulder, like a warm piece of luggage. He glares at the weary night registrar, who immediately flicks his eyes back to his comic without comment. He pours Charles into bed, and removes his shoes and tie. He drops a blanket over his demon, and goes for a shower. Charles is still out cold when Erik towels off and returns to their room, so Erik shrugs and fetches their file on the latest Nazis for a little more homework. The money goes from someone here in the US to a Swiss bank. If they can get the name of the banker and bank from the contact here, they can go and interrogate him in Switzerland.

 

Erik is awoken by Charles’ fretful murmurings. He sits up, slowly. His demon is restless, tossing and turning so much the blanket has fallen off. Erik can’t follow what he’s saying; none of it is in a language he can recognise. He yawns, then stands and replaces the blanket. Charles stills, briefly.  
“How the mighty have fallen.” Erik says quietly to himself. Not quietly enough.  
“Fallen?” Charles’ eyes fly open. He looks almost afraid. “What? Who?”  
“Apparently you were defeated by Mike’s moonshine.”  
“Nonsense, my dear boy.” Charles waves a hand, airily. “Angels and demons are never drunk!”

“Is that so?” Erik raises an eyebrow.   
“Certainly. Why do you think Azazel drinks nothing but vodka and is still able to teleport wherever he wants? Have you got a glass of water? I’m terribly thirsty for some reason”   
“What? No tea?” Erik turns to get Charles a glass, and so misses the shifty expression that crosses Charles’s face.  
“Just water, thank you.” He gulps it down, hastily. He sighs, holding the damp chilly glass against his forehead  
“Headache?” Inquires Erik, somewhat unsympathetically  
“Among other things. I suppose I-“ 

Charles breaks off, suddenly. He looks most peculiar, almost cross eyed for a moment, and then he is abruptly and violently ill, all over the floor. “Ugh.”  
“Indeed.” Erik sighs. 

Looks like they won’t be tracking down that contact today, either.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles experiences an epiphany, and this pushes him past a _very_ personal tipping point. Erik does not understand.

Charles has _everything_ under control. Really, he _does._ He has his Erik, and, up until now, everything’s been going _so well._ They’ve located a few Nazis, and Erik has shown no inclination to hand them over to human justice at all. He hasn’t been interested in torturing them to death, either, but Charles was sure that would come in time. Everything had been going to be _fine._ But they’ve stayed too long in this city. Charles knows he gets attached far too _easily_. It’s an unusual weakness in a demon, but he’s recognised it as a problem ever since he picked up Raven, and hadn’t wanted to destroy her. She’d been so pretty, and broken, and blue when he’d stumbled over her as she was in the process of being drowned as a demon by her family. 

She'd been eight. Charles had enjoyed showing that pathetic group what a real demon was like, even though he had had nowhere like the resources he had these days. To the point where he'd fallen asleep in the... _remnants_ , afterwards. He’d woken to find a tiny blue thing washing him very earnestly. He’d offered her some food, and she’d offered- she’d offered _herself,_ because she thought she had to, to get it. Fortunately, the demon Raven had offered herself to had been Charles, who found all that kind of thing lacking in... _style_ , so he’d taken her up on the letter of her offer and not the spirit. He took her with him. He’d done his demonic best by her, and he was honestly proud of how she’d turned out .

He’d been sure Erik was going to go the same way, or else become boring and destroyable when Charles found him. Cramps twisted their way through his body, and Charles sucked in air between his teeth, desperately. Was it _such_ a bad thing to influence a family into educating their son? Away at college, he’d have plenty of opportunities to succumb to temptation, plenty of reasons to become prideful and estranged from his family. Charles hadn’t being undemonic at _all_. It’s really very unfair that this is apparently the tipping point. But it is. He wasn’t drunk, whatever Erik thinks, but the low grade poisoning felt by any demon after performing a good deed for no personal reward has clearly had much the same effect. Ugh. Betrayed by his own flesh of all things. Ridiculous. 

Charles resolves to commit some evil and selfish acts immediately. Just as soon as he can get out of this bed. Only, he realises, with growing alarm, nothing coming to mind is remotely attractive. Killing is so easy and boring; what’s the point of destroying someone’s mind if afterwards there’s nothing left to remember, and all the carnal sins in the world are not as attractive to him as his Erik is. Why was Charles so vulnerable? The little thing he did for Joe’s boy should never have affected him, given that he’s practically been committing all the carnal sins in the world (the consensual ones, anyway) recently, with his Erik.

Wait. With _his_ Erik?

 

Oh.

 

**_Crap._ **   


Charles knows, very suddenly that he, and by extension, Erik, are both quite possibly in deep, deep trouble. Erik has to leave him. Right now. _This second_. A fresh wave of pain rolls over him as he thinks about that, and he feels like screaming. He’s making it worse for himself just by thinking that. But Erik has to get away from him, as fast as possible. It’s not safe. _He’s_ not safe. Not anymore.  
“Erik.” He says desperately. “Erik, you have to leave.” He feels Erik stir into wakefulness beside him. Erik’s arms tighten around him.  
 _“Nein.”_

“Wake up!” he hisses, sharply. “Erik, you have to get out of this city. Before it’s too late!”  
“Are you delirious again?” Erik sounds very worried. Charles squints at his lovely face and realises he can barely see it. His mind reading is behaving very strangely, wavering between full strength, where he can hear everything, and total silence, as if his brain has been wrapped in concrete.. It makes it very hard to concentrate. He shakes his head, impatiently.  
“Turn the light on.” He demands, irritably.  
“Charles, it’s daylight! Can’t you…” Erik’s voice trails off as he makes a sudden realisation. “You can’t see.” He sounds horrified.  
“Not very well, _no_.” 

He shoves himself up on his elbows, and tries to gasp at the pain. Erik stuffs the pillows behind his shoulders and sits up as well. Charles takes a deep breath.  
“Erik. Please leave. I’m not delirious. It is not safe for you here. I cannot protect you, and things are going to become very dangerous.”  
"Charles. You can’t sit up in bed, you’re apparently going _blind_ -“ and Charles can hear the waver of fear in his voice. Fear for him, oh, his lovely boy has _no idea_ of who he should be afraid for. Or of. Erik continues.  
“Stop being ridiculous.” A wave of affection rolls through Charles as he listens to his dear boy trying to be decisive and protective. 

“Of course I’m not going to leave you.” And Charles can feel the worry and love – oh, the _love_ \- beneath that sentence and it burns like _fire_ , like _grace,_ as his empathy begins to resurrect itself after centuries of absence. _Dear God,_ he thinks, as the next wave of pain arrives, crushing him beneath it. His back is on fire, and it feels like someone’s inserting metal rods into his shoulders. Erik moves incautiously, and the bed shakes. Charles tries to muffle his scream, but, from Erik’s reaction, he doesn’t succeed. Erik catches him by the shoulders as he slumps, and that’s the last, last straw. 

The pain is unbearable. It feels like _death_. Charles knows he is not dying, and he tries to tell Erik that, before, once again, telling him to get away to safety. 

Charles is not sure if he succeeds before the last of the light is abruptly extinguished as he passes out.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which truths are violently revealed, and Erik rejects a call to salvation. Profanely.

Erik is not worried about Charles. He is _terrified_. Since the day they met, when he healed him and helped him and killed for him, Charles has always seemed invulnerable. Charles has always been his security, his rock. And now he is blind, and babbling, convulsing in agony, and Erik doesn’t know why, or _how to stop it_. He swallows down his nauseous fear grimly. It’s a long time since he has been this afraid, and the last time he was this frightened for someone else, it was his mother. He forces aside the memory of how well that turned out; it won’t do Charles any good if he panics completely. Before screaming and passing out; Charles had been very insistent that Erik leave the city, as danger was coming, and he was no longer able to protect him. He looks at the unconscious demon, now so pale as to look more than half dead. Erik refuses to even consider it. Who would protect his Charles if Erik abandoned him? So he stuffs their wallets into his pocket, slips downstairs, and drags Charles into the nearest car with a comfortable looking backseat. Erik arranges his professor as comfortably as possible, laying him on his side and hoping for the best. He spreads a stolen blanket over him, and drives. He keeps to below the speed limit deliberately. Now is not the time to get arrested.

\-------------

Charles _hurts._ His back aches, and it feels as though someone is busy prying apart all his joints with metal bars. The bed is humming and shaking in a jolting, nauseating fashion. He opens his eyes, and immediately squeezes them shut again as vicious needles of light stab at them harshly. He can feel Erik somewhere near, a steady burst of focused fear and determination.  
“Charles?” He doesn’t want to open his eyes again, but the concern in Erik’s voice drags his weary lids apart.  
“Hmm?” Words are too hard. Erik will have to make do with noises, Charles thinks.  
“Are you awake, or you just twitching again?” Erik says, gruffly.  
“Awake. Mostly” Charles raises a shaking hand to his eyes.  
“Good.”  
“Are- Erik, are we in a _car_?”

“Yes. You said to get away.” There’s a pause as he waits for Charles to respond. “Charles. Is there anywhere safer? How far away from the city do we need to be?” Charles groans. Oh, Erik. His lovely _idiot_ man. He told him to get away, _told_ him he, Charles was becoming dangerous, and _now_ is the time he stops listening to his demon? Now is the time he chooses to practice independence of thought and deed? A wave of pain floods him, and he groans again.  
“Erik. I thought I distinctly told you to get away from _me_ , too. Why did you not follow that part of my order?” His voice doesn’t waver. Erik snaps back.

“Charles. What made you think you could make me _leave_ you? And what the hell is going on? What’s wrong with you?”  
He fights down a wave of hysterical laughter. What’s wrong with him? Less and less by _every second_. And Erik is refusing to get away from him to safety.  
 _“CHARLES!”_  
“Don’t shout.”Charles begs, wearily.  
“You were… You were glowing. And also I thought you were passing out again.”  
“Sorry.” He sits up, trying to avoid Erik’s eyes in the rear view mirror.  
“Charles. Tell me what the hell is going on. _Please._ ” Erik begs, quietly. 

When Erik says please like that, Charles cannot say no to him. Even now, when it will likely destroy what they have together. He takes a deep, unsteady breath.

“Well-” But Erik is swearing and stamping on the brakes as the car swerves. There’s an almighty bang as they hit something, and then the car is flooded with light. Pure, blinding celestial light. Charles feels a wave of recognition from within it and despairs. Too late. Always, always he is _too late._

\----------------

Erik tries to keep the car under control, talk to Charles and work out what the hell is going on, all at once. It’s too much at once, and the car runs off the road as he struggles with the wheel, his mind too busy to use his gift to pull it back on course. There’s a muffled bang as he mounts the sidewalk- thank god they’re in the middle of nowhereville- and then the car is suddenly flooded with a glory of light, a pure, tingling, almost _burning_ illumination. The light recedes like the tide, dims, and finally snaps out, revealing a woman, possessing an unearthly beauty, standing above them on a rise of grass. Erik throws himself out of the car after Charles. The woman is clothed in a white, flowing dress, her hair bound back from her brows with a circlet of silver. Erik stares. She has wings, glorious crystalline wings that catch the sun like diamond snow. 

She is also holding a naked sword, a sword of blazing silver.  
 _“Emmaliel.”_ Breathes Charles, quietly.  
She looks straight through him, speaking only to Erik. Erik frowns. Who is she? What is she?  
“Fear not, Erik Lensherr.” Her voice carries the high tones of a trumpet call in it. Even her instruction to be unafraid sounds to Erik like a call to arms. “Do not be afraid, for thou shalt be redeemed.”

“Excuse me. What?”  
“Thou shalt be refined and made clean from thy-“

“And _stop talking_ like someone recently force fed you the King James bible. Please.” A tiny frown contorts her heavenly features. Besides him Charles cannot repress a tiny snort of laughter. Erik relaxes, just a little. If Charles is laughing, then this cannot be too terrible. Can it? Emmaliel gives him a regal nod.  
“Very well. Step aside from the filthy one.” She glares at Charles. He gives a resigned sigh, staring back at her calmly. When Erik does not move away, Charles steps towards her, slowly. Erik follows him. Charles is still looking terrible, and Erik is sure he’s going to fall over any minute. He’s not letting him go any further away from him than he can help.

“This isn’t your usual way of doing things, Em.” He says, mildly.  
“Do not speak to me, _traitor._ ” She glowers, and glows. Charles and Erik both wince back from her light. A cruel smirk crosses her face as Charles staggers.  
“Charles. What is going on? Who is this?” Erik half whispers, urgently.  
“Erik. Allow me to introduce you to Emmaliel, one of the Pure.” He smiles a little sadly.  
“What?”  
“I am an Angel of the Light.” She explains impatiently.

Oh. 

**_Crap._ **

Charles is a demon. Wait. Why isn’t he fighting her or fleeing? “As the _traitor_ used to be.” She sneers. Charles closes his eyes. “Didn’t you, _Xavriel?_ ” Eyes still closed, Charles nods. Erik’s jaw drops.  
“Your name is Xavriel? Where did you get Charles from?” He feels a tiny bit hurt he’s never known his lovers’ real name. He puts it aside. Now is clearly not the time.  
“Was. Was Xavriel.” Charles says quietly, his face full of regret and pain.  
“Xaviel Fell, long ago.” Snaps the blonde. “This thing is a shell of my brother, no more.” She raises her sword. “Now I shall rid the worlds of its' _pollution._ ” She raises her burning blade. The look on Charles’ face is one of infinite resignation and sorrow.

“No!” Erik finds he has stepped between Charles and the threat automatically. “Don’t hurt him!” Charles grabs one arm, trying to pull Erik out of danger.  
"Please, Emmaliel!" he pleads "Leave him be, he doesn't understand!" Erik ignores him. So does the angel. She gestures at Charles with her sword, in contempt.  
“This thing is a demon. Not worthy of your care. He works only for your corruption. Turn to the light, child.”

“What?” Erik hasn't been a child since before his mother died. He cannot believe what his ears are telling him.  
“Turn back to the light, repent of the path that led you to call this… this thing, and you shall live.” She gives him a kind, welcoming smile. Erik is suddenly, _deeply_ angry. Who is this woman, to walk in over the ruins of his life and demand he “repent”? How _dare_ she judge the child he had been? Ot the man that child had become? Had she been in the camps? Had she? He asks as much, and she says:

"The light is everywhere. In everything. In every one." Her bvoice sounds like a trumpet again. Charles smiles faintly, in agreement. Erik tries to hold onto his fraying temper a little more tightly  
“Where was it when I called out, then? Where was this light you say I _left?_ ” Behind him the car begins to creak and groan, warningly, as small pieces begin to shred from it. Emmaliel ignores it.  
“Explain.” She demands, curtly.  
“I was in a _death camp!_ Am I supposed to repent of being tortured every day by a crazy man who’d shot my mother?” With every word, further pieces of metal tear themselves from the car and hover in mid air. “Charles rescued me.”

“He stole you.” She corrects him.  
“From what, the _Nazis_ s?”  
“From the Light.” How can her voice still sound like trumpets when she says such stupid things?  
“If this _Light_ you ralk about had been there, he wouldn’t _have had to_!” Erik is screaming, now. Charles has gone bone white, still clinging to his arm. He’s babbling at Erik, trying to make him leave, say he’s sorry- anything. Erik ignores him. If Charles thinks he’s abandoning him to this white bitch queen because she’s an angel, he can think again. Charles is still Charles, still Erik’s friend and lover and rescuer. Erik isn’t going anywhere without him.

His demon had been there for him, had rescued him from unspeakable pain and filth. If the Light thinks that was Erik’s _rightful_ place and fate, the Light can go _fuck itself_. He tells her that, and her face hardens immediately. She flicks her sword out, and tongues of flame burst from it, tearing through Charles. He cries out, collapsing to his knees, white faced. The angel stalks forwards, raising her blade for the final stroke. Desperate, Erik thrusts out a hand, trying to hold the strange metal back from Charles’ neck. She sways away from Erik, stares at him briefly, and then her blade swings towards him.

It’s so sharp, he doesn’t realise she has struck him until he sees his blood on her sword. 

It’s like being stabbed with a venemous icicle. Burning chill lances through him as his blood pools in the dirt. The metal shards he’s been holding tumble harmlessly to the floor. Erik follows them. Charles cries out in grief as he collapses next to him. Erik fumbles for his lover's hand. Charles returns the grasp, clasping Erik’s fingers until the pair of them are torn apart as Emmaliel kicks Charles onto his face. Charles screams in agony as she stamps a foot into his shoulder to hold him down.


	12. Chapter 12

It is not the taste of dirt in his mouth nor the crushing pain in his shoulder where Emaliel's foot is pinning him to the ground that fills Charles' newly revived heart with despair. It isn't her icy contempt for him that fills his freshly awakened conscience with agonising shame and self hatred.

It's Erik.

Erik, with his eyes closed, slumped in the dust. Bleeding from an angel's sword. Already he is ghost - pale. It won't be long now. And carrying all Charles has done to him in his soul, what will happen to Erik afterwards? Charles has no illusions about what to expect for _himself_ ; he will face either oblivion immediately or else annihilation after being dragged through the Courts as a dire warning to the fledglings. Neither his remorse not his repentance will make the experience less painful or speed it up.

Oh, _Erik._

He should never have existed, Charles realises. If only it were possible to rip up the web of time and erase oneself from history, he could have done so as soon as Emaliel's blazing sword consumed the last of his demonic side. If only. He feels her footing shift as she raises her blade for the final strike. There is a pause. Charles imagines her angling the blade, waiting for the perfect moment. He takes a final breath, unable to look at Erik's limp form, and waits. Charles does not struggle further. There is no point. Erik is already injured, by angelic blade and demonic contact. Emaliel's sword cannot cut him more deeply than the lash of his self disgust does. The pause goes on, and on. Emaliel does not strike. Erik does not move. Charles stares at dust motes hanging in the air, and wonders if he is already dead, and in hell.

Then a quiet voice says: 

“Emaliel. Stay your blade.” She makes no reply. Charles twists his head, but all he can see are a pair of black shoes standing near Erik's twisted form. They are far away to belong to the speaker; there must be two of them; oh god, two more. Wait. Why are they telling her to stop?   
“Emaliel, there is innocent blood on your blade.” Erik had been innocent? _Still?_ Charles is briefly swept with a shadowy joy that he has not ruined Erik as he had feared, before the bitter irony resserts itself. No wound from an Angel's sword will ever heal. Charles shudders as he remembers. 

The other speaks again, more sharply.   
Charles flinches at her snarled refusal.  
“Emaliel.”  
“NO!” She screeches. “No, this is not justice! Filthy, unclean- I _will_ serve the Light's will!”   
“Emaliel, you have defiled your sword. Please, sister, stop before it's too late!” The newcomer is pleading now. Charles, still sprawled in the dust, begins to shake as he remembers his own Fall, and what is coming next if she does not relent. 

There is a great, silent shock that ripples through Charles' bones. There is no pain, and after a second he realises it cannot have been the final blow. Something drops gently onto Charles's back. He startles, briefly. But it isn't heavy enough to be a weapon and for a second he can't think-  
And then Emaliel gives a great wailing cry of loss and grief, as she drops her sword, and he realises what it must be. There is another light touch, and then another. Chilled, he wriggles away, and the no-longer-angel above him allows it. He sits up, painfully, and looks at her. Emmaliel's crystalline feathers are falling out. As they hit the ground they flare brightly, like magnesium dropped into water, and then vanish. She drops to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself in lonely grief. Her tears fall, and as they fall, they burn. 

Charles' eyes are burning too. He would hold her, but he knows that the touch of another will only make it worse. And his sympathy for this falling Angel can only extend so far, because she is the being who struck down his lovely, his innocent, his _Erik._ It is Charles' fault he came within her orbit, but even so, he cannot shake the feeling, as she begins to writhe in pain, that the consequences are not completely unjust. If only she had killed him first. It would have made things easier; perhaps she might not have struck Erik, perhaps, perhaps- 

He glances across at the two new angels. One is a red haired short woman he does not recognise. She bends over Erik, who does not move. Charles has to look away. The other is a currently dark skinned man with deep and compassionate eyes. When Charles was Xavriel, he knew him very well. Charles decides to risk speaking.  
“Hello, Dar-” He has to cough. Breathing hurts, strangely.  
“Hey, Zav. Been a while.”


	13. Chapter 13

Erik is very comfortable. He's lying on his back, with his head on something soft and warm. Something is touching his forehead, gently. Erik doesn't know where he is, or what's going on, but strangely, he feels loose and relaxed and easy. It's nice, if a little odd. Erik opens his eyes and sees a stranger's face.  
“Lie still.” She's a red head, and Erik's head is cradled on her lap. Her hands are touching his head with gentle, feather like strokes. Even this doesn't cause him to tense; which is when he starts wondering- calmly, of course- why he feels so _safe_ , so _peaceful_. The red haired woman smiles at him. He feels himself start to smile back.  
“What... what's happening?” Erik manages to say, eventually.

“You were wounded by an Angel's sword, Erik Lensherr,” she reports, matter of factly.” I am healing you.” Erik tenses, as much as he can, as memories begin to return and-  
 _“Charles!”_ he blurts out, and tries to sit up. Either he is much, much weaker than before, or she is stronger than she looks; for the woman holds him back without any effort.  
“He who was Xavriel is well, please don't struggle.” Erik finds himself longing to believe her, as he relaxes again. A thread of curiosity tugs at him.  
“Who.. who are you?”   
“Amiel.” She smiles. “Almost done.”  
“What happened?” He pleads. 

Erik is not used to pleading, not any more, but he _must_ know how he and Charles are apparently still alive.  
“A good question. She who was Emaliel-” Erik tries not to flinch at the name. He fails, and Amiel's touch is gentle and soothing as she continues “She struck to kill you. As you defended one you loved. You are innocent; your blood was on her sword, and she did not repent." Erik twitches as the words hit him.  
" Nor did she stop seeking to kill, in her anger, her pride, and her bitter hatred, one who had been her good friend once. For an Angel, these are deadly sins.” Although Amiel's voice is soft, and her hands are gentle, her voice rings like a trumpet as she says this. Erik remembers Emaliel's implacable face and shivers.  
“ _I'm_ innocent?” Erik feels the tears sting his eyes; he knows he cannot be so. 

Not after Schmidt, not after dealing with a demon, and all that came after that. It can't be. He _can't_ be.  
“Yes.” Amiel says, as sure as the sunlight. "You are."  
“That's not p- I mean, the camps, what, what they made me-.” He's never even told Charles this, although he wouldn't be surprised if his demon had known. Schmidt had made him try his powers on human targets, as well as under torture. And there's what he has done hunting Nazis, although he has never tortured them once found.  
“Innocent does not mean sinless, Erik. You have sinned.” A smile touches her face, and her eyes sparkle. 

“Doubtless you will sin again. Most humans do.” She smooths back the hair from his eyes. “But all sins are forgiveable. You survived a terrible place without losing your soul or your conscience. Not everyone could do what you have done.”  
“I... I-” Erik's tears spill over. Amiel helps him sit, and holds him as he weeps. His tears come slow and hard; he hasn't cried in years. She holds Erik patiently, gently. until he runs out of weeping.  
“So... what happens now?” He feels very tired.  
“You will live your life as you did before; with free will. But perhaps with a little more knowledge.”  
“And Charles?” Erik hardly dares ask.  
“Likewise. He is neither fully angel or demon now; he will need help.”

“I don't understand.” He doesn't. All Erik's life Charles has been a demon, and the knowledge that he was once an angel was hard enough to grasp. He still doesn't understand what had been wrong before Emaliel had arrived on the scene. Charles had been in so much _pain_. Even if the angel hadn't hurt him, he was still so ill. Amiel looks fondly at him. It's very strange. People who are not Charles don't like Erik very much. Not usually. But the Angel appears to feel a genuine affection for him.  
“Just as an Angel can fall, a Demon can rise. He rose because of love.” she says, brightly.  
“L-love? B-because he- because I-” Erik jerks himself further upright, staring at her. 

Could she be right? Has something he did _helped?_ The red haired angel smiles.  
“Not because you loved him, although it certainly helped. Because he loved you. Loves you.” Erik can't breathe. Charles _loved him?_ He thought he had accepted, long ago, when Azazel had spoken to him; that demons did not, could not love. He knew Charles had liked him, been amused by him. He had never dared hope for _love._ Since he was unable to save his mother, Erik has known he could not deserve love. Not from anyone. He scrubs his hand across his eyes. 

Erik looks over to where Charles is also sitting, head on his knees, hugging himself. Charles is looking at a crumpled, weeping figure Erik has trouble recognising as Emaliel. There's a dark skinned man- another angel, bending over her, lifting away shards of crystal Erik realises, were her wings. He looks back at Amiel, who is regarding him steadily.   
“Do all angels have wings? Where are yours?” Physical differences have interested him since he found out Raven had been born blue and shape shifting before she had become a demon. He's never found any human with a gift like his own, but he hopes they're out there, somewhere.

Amiel laughs, and the sound is _glorious_. She dips her head, and wings of living flame extend from her back. Erik is entranced. They are beautiful, phoenix-like. He sees Charles staring with a wistful look on his face, and he asks  
“What were his wings like?" He wishes he could have seen that, Charles when he was one of thses divine beings. Before he was Charles.  
“Xavriel's wings were silver, and light.”  
“Will they come back? If he-” He wasn't sure how to finish. 

Amiel looks sad. More than sad, bereft.  
“No. Lost once, lost forever.”  
“Oh.” Erik wants to go to Charles, and hug him, fiercely and forever. Amiel's face lightens, and she says again, lightly.  
“He will need help.”  
Erik resolves Charles will receive _everything_ he can offer that Charles is willing to take.

\-------------------------------

Charles breathes in. All his demonic senses are as dead as his angelic ones. His chest aches. He is alive, he thinks, and it’s possible he will remain so. At least, neither Dariel nor Amiel seem about to haul out flaming swords and have a go at him. His head feels odd, ringingly light and very full of other people’s noise. Amiel is bent over Erik, passing her hands across his wounds. Charles tenses, a tiny part of him insisting that _he_ ought to be the person to heal Erik, and a greater part mourning the fact that he _can’t,_ not any longer. Given that the wound came from an angel’s sword, Charles would not have been able to heal it anyway. But still. She smiles at him, brightly, before turning back to Erik, her flaming hair falling around her face.

The former Emaliel is refusing comfort and assistance from Dar- just as Charles had- when he had fallen from being Xavriel. That was a thing that angels never seemed to understand: there was no comfort, no healing for this loss. Xavriel hadn’t understood either, when he had tried to comfort newly-Fallen before his own Fall. Emaliel is speaking again; going on about sin and impurity and the burning fires of righteousness.   
Dariel sighs. “Come on, Em.” She hisses at him, muttering about the pure and salvation again. Charles’s stomach clenches.  
“The world is full of sin. I can see it, I can still see it. It shall be purified! I shall purify it!” Her face is alight with certainty. Or complete denial. 

Charles can feel his own wings ache in sympathy at her bereavement, even centuries after he lost them. He stares at Emaliel’s feathers, falling and burning and fading. It had been the worst moment of his Fall, even worse than looking down at his blade and seeing the bright, innocent blood shining on it like an accusing fire. He had chosen his own path from then on. Emaliel is apparently dealing with her loss by pretending it has not happened; that her duty is still to smite the unrighteous. Em never was very good at comforting the oppressed or binding up the broken hearted, Charles reminds himself. Still, it is very hard. Emaliel throws off Dariel’s arm and rises, stalking away in grim determination.

Erik sits up, staring wide eyed at Amiel. They talk for a little while, and then Erik begins to cry. Charles scrambles from his knees, staggering upright before he realises that Erik is weeping in relief, almost joy. Amiel has been telling him he is not an unforgivable sinner; that being a victim of the camps did not make him corrupt. Charles’ shoulders slump. No, he thinks. I did that. Wait. _How did he know that?_ He didn’t hear them talking. He just saw Erik in tears. How had he known what they were saying, what Erik was feeling? His demonic thought hearing was gone; his angelic mind-sensing had not survived his Fall. How had he sensed this? 

Dar is staring at him; and Charles’ knees are aching as he wobbles back down again. 

“What’s happening to me?” He whispers. “What’s happening?”


	14. Chapter 14

Telepathy. That was what was wrong with Charles. One of the things, anyway. They had been returned to the mansion instantly. Once Charles’ telepathy had emerged, he had needed to be in an isolated place where he could learn to shield easily, Dariel had explained, before leaving with Amiel in a faint flutter of wings. Charles was glad to be alone, gladder still that he no longer had to face such reminders of what he had been and what he had lost, but he wishes he could have asked more questions first.  
Erik thought they had not explained enough in their hurry to be out of range, looking at Charles’ tense shoulders and unhappy face. Telepathy? Mind reading? It made about as much sense as his gift with metal. Except he was human and Charles was… Whatever an ex demon was. 

Right now, Charles is exhausted and miserable. He will need help, Amiel had said. Erik remembers his rescue from Schmidt, his childhood here, and falling in love with Charles. He’s going to give Charles all the help he can.  
“You’re tired.” Erik points out gently. Charles bristles defensively.  
“Headache.” He says, shortly. Erik doesn’t press the point.  
“Come to bed, then.” He tried to make his voice welcoming rather than suggestive. Charles flinched as if he’d been struck, and stared at him. Erik frowns. “Just to sleep, if you prefer.” He hoped Charles did _not_ prefer. So much had changed, he would like one part of their relationship to stay the same. 

“If I prefer? If I prefer!?” Charles found his voice shaking, and he swallowed and pinched his nose in an attempt to maintain composure. “Don’t you realise what I’ve _done_ to you?”  
“What?” The look of simple puzzlement on Erik’s face hurts like a knife thrust. Even after seeing angels, seeing one fall, Erik still isn’t leaving him. Yet. Charles is sure it’s only a matter of time. He wishes he were strong enough, good enough to want to speed Erik’s leaving rather than delay it. He is so _selfish_ a creature. The thought of the damage he has done to Erik, mind and soul, over the years, makes him ill with shame.  
“Erik, I… I’ve corrupted you. You know that. I... How can you desire this, desire me, like this?” 

Charles is a monster. Erik should hate him, be repelled by him. As repelled as Charles is by himself. Charles licks his lips. His mouth is so dry, and his head hurts. He could really do with a cup of tea. Automatically he reaches out, and winces in pain. Summoning his tea cup is another thing he can no longer do. As if he is the mind reader, Erik moves to the stove, and puts the kettle on. He summons the silver teapot.  
“You might have seduced me, but you didn’t exactly change who I _was_ , Charles. You didn’t change my mind, or my preferences.” Erik tells the stove. Charles stares at his back, incredulously. Erik turns round to look Charles in the eye, as he asks, seriously.

“Has Raven ever tried to eat you?”  
“Over you? No.” And that, Charles realises is a solid, reliable fact. Had he raped Erik, or taken advantage of him and made him unhappy or hurt him sexually, Raven would have known, even if Erik had not. And she would have gone for him, brother and maker or not. It is part of her nature. Her nature is his fault, but still. He feels a faint flutter of hope. Erik turns away as the kettle begins to boil.  
"I… enjoyed it as much as you.” How _much_ he’s enjoyed being with Charles, Erik tries not to think. He doesn’t need an erection right now on top of everything else.   
“You’ve never done anything to me I didn’t want done, Charles. I can swear to it, if you like.” He swings round, a rueful look on his face.

“Well. Apart from that thing with the feathers and the tentacles.” Against his will, Charles can feel himself blushing. It’s _absurd_. He hasn’t blushed for centuries. Also remembering the thing with the feathers and tentacles. One of his more embarrassing memories, even now. Feathers and tentacles do not mix. How had he lived so long and not realised that before he met Erik? It is a mystery. Erik has taught him so much. Charles has so much to make up for to him.  
“I thought we agreed we would never speak of it again.” he says half humorously.   
“True, I’m sorry.” Erik even sounds it, which is strange and wrong, wrong. Erik should not be apologising to him.  
“You’re sorry.” Charles can feel his composure cracking. Tears well up in his eyes. “ _You’_ re sorry? I'm the one who should be sorry. Erik, Erik, I’m so sorry for all I’ve done, and-” 

Charles covers his face with his hands. He does not dare ask for forgiveness. 

Erik has begun to realise how much Charles currently hates himself. Self hatred is something he’s fairly familiar with, and he will be _dammed_ \- poor choice of words, but true- before he lets Charles drown in its bitter and sticky depths. He urges Charles to his feet, pulls him towards the stairs. The tea floats behind them, on a metal tray. Charles says nothing as they climb, but the look on his face and the set of his spine indicates he’s bracing himself. Erik kicks off his shoes and crawls into bed fully dressed. Charles does the same, lying next to him stiffly and staring at the ceiling. His lips are moving. Erik realises that he’s mouthing _“forgive me.”_ over and over. His eyes are glistening. 

Erik pulls Charles into his arms. It’s only very slightly awkward. Charles leans into him, shaking.  
“Charles. Charles. I can’t forgive you”- Charles freezes in his arms- “I can’t forgive you for wrongs you _haven’t done me._ ” Erik kisses Charles’ temple, willing him to feel his sincerity.  
“But-” It can’t be true. Charles cannot have salvation so easily. He just _can’t._ Erik’s grip tightens. Clearly he is going to have to walk Charles through this, step by step. 

“Charles. Where did we meet?” He tucks Charles’ head under his chin. It’s a new experience. Charles curls into Erik like a wary cat, longing for comfort and afraid of it at the same time. Erik is always so warm. Erik asks again. “Where was I when we met?”  
"I found you.” Charles remembers. A scrawny boy. Half starved, hurt and despairing, surrounded by death and hatred and the remains of a tawdry summoning spell. “You were in your cell at the camp.”  
“After I called you. And what did you do?” Erik asks, patiently. Charles will get Erik’s point if it kills him. Charles twists unhappily in Erik’s embrace.

“I got you, a _child_ , to deal with a _demon_ , I-” Shame overwhelms his voice.   
“No.” says Erik, immediately. He gives Charles a little shake. “That’s _not_ what you did. You found me, you rescued me, and you took me away from the camps.” His voice hardens. “You keep saying you corrupted me, Charles. Have you ever wondered what I’d have had to do to survive Schmidt’s attentions, or the war? Who I might have become if you hadn’t come to me?” Erik has, sometimes. In his nightmares, or just after them.

“I-” It’s clear this is a new thought for Charles. He catches his breath. He cannot deny Schmidt had been a thoroughly hideous man. If Erik had survived what Schmidt was doing to him, he would have grown up with Schmidt and Azazel as his main influences. Charles can imagine some possible results of that all too well. He shudders. Erik tightens his embrace. If he has to tell Charles a thousand times, before he hears it, he will. The ex demon- _his_ ex demon- _will_ understand what he has and has not done for Erik if it is the last thing Erik is allowed to do on this earth.  
“I’ll say it again, Charles. You. Rescued. Me.” Erik punctuates each word with a kiss. 

They feel to Charles like a rain of mercy. He closes his eyes. Erik doesn’t let go of him, even in his sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azazel makes a mistake. Erik takes great care Charles knows his inaugral lecture off by heart. _Great_ care.

So. Charles has risen. He, Azazel, knew it would be so as soon as he saw who- or what, rather, had drawn his friend into Europe. If only he had chosen vodka instead of tea. Vodka helps keep preserve oneself unchanged. But Charles had always remained closer to the side of the angels than most demons, picking and choosing his food and his victims fastidiously. Azazel’s selection of souls was considered exacting enough by other demons; but he was greedy and indiscriminate in his acquisitions compared to Charles.

Ah, Charles had been a master craftsman of demons; Raven was his most magnificent creation. Seeing her ranging the towns and cities, like a blue flame of passionate death as she hunted and consumed those ripely swollen with her especial sin- ah, she was a beauty beyond compare! He, Azazel, he even loved her. A little. It was safer for him to do so, of course. He had been born a demon and would if possible, not die a demon. He would rise when lead flew to the Moon. And he was heavier than lead, and had never had wings. It was hard for him to love, but not as dangerous as it might be for her. So he could comfort her when she heard of Charles’ defection back to the Light.

“Half demon, half angel? What do you call that?” Raven had wept, in her furious sorrow,  
“Human” Azazel had answered her, dryly. She had hissed and struck out at him, before shadow walking away. He had let her go cheerfully enough. He knew her better than most demons; in a century or so she would be quite recovered. Until then, best to let her go her own way.Now, he might have a new friend to make. Emaliel had fallen, he had heard.

Thanks to Charles and Erik. Perhaps he should send them a fruit basket? It was always lonely, those first years as a new demon, according to Charles. Lonely and frightening. Well. Perhaps she could use a knowledgeable companion? Charles had appreciated it, very much. Azazel grins, and speeds to her side. She is alone, staring at her shattered sword.  
“My lady.” He says, in mocking greeting, and bows. She glances at him indifferently, so he persists, taking her hand, and kissing it. She snatches her hand from his grip, and spits. Hmm. Charles had still been weeping over his wings when Azazel first met him; this one has more spirit, even if she persists in mumbling about sin and justice and filth.

He offers her his finest vodka, served the way the best spirit should be: Ice cold and straight from the bottle. To his surprise, she drinks, deeply. Her eyes come into abrupt, icy focus. Azazel suppresses a flinch as she suddenly stares straight into his eyes.  
“Come,” she says. “This world is foul with sin, and so are you. Yet will you be my sword, and together we will purify all things.”  
Azazel laughs. He starts to say something, something witty and mocking, and finds he cannot. His tongue has frozen, his thoughts move like a bird in lime. Her eyes pierce into his, and too late, he remembers. 

Angels have powers of the mind. When they fall, they do not always lose them with their wings. Charles had not lost his completely, after all. Frantic, he tries to leap away. He cannot. She holds him to her will. He cannot speak. He cannot move. What has she done to him? _What?_ He cries out, silently, but no-one hears him. She continues, briskly, now, to smother his thoughts, as she speaks.He struggles, desperately, and she overbears him effortlessly.  
“Fire is pure, and fire cleanses. This world must bathe in fire. Take me to New York” Silently, he obeys. 

Azazel cannot resist her will, her mind as it enfolds his like a glove. He has no hope. Except- frantic, he covers the thought. She must not know. Except perhaps Raven might free him. Or Charles and his little wager. If they knew.

\--------------------------------------

 

Lecturing is hard. Oh, _bad_ choice of words. Charles blinks sweat out his eyes, as a deep voice says  
"Again."  
Charles takes a deep breath and tries again.  
“All life began as single- as single celled organisms-” His voice shakes, and he loses the thread of his lecture and his thoughts in quick succession. Crouched over him, Erik grins like a gleeful lion.  
“Need a rest?” His voice rumbles, gravelled velvet in Charles’s ears. Even Charles’s ears are being caressed by his Erik, he can’t stand it.

“No!” His voice, like the rest of Charles is desperate. They’ve been doing this for hours, ever since Charles had confessed he was worried about giving his first official lecture as professor with tenure. Oxford has high standards. Unfortunately, right now, so has Erik, although his idea of an oral examination is certainly _not_ what most universities would employ. Charles thinks, anyway. He reaches for the next section of his lecture.Erik looks at him consideringly, and then licks a long, slow circling stripe up his shaft. Charles frantically tries to control his hips as they jerk wildly.  
“It is the pr- oh! oh-cess of mutation that- _NNnnhh!_ ” Cruelly, Erik abandons Charles' cock and moves back to planting kisses and bites on his belly and sensitive inner thighs. "The process of mutation that-"

Erik continues to lick and suck and taste Charles’s skin, only stopping when Charles loses the thread of his lecture again. He can't brng a single word of it to mind. He’s going _mad\_. He twists his wrists against their binding, but the metal is obedient to its master, and Erik wants him to stay still. Charles whimpers. If he could come, he could think again, he’s sure, but he can’t come until he can think. It's not _fair._ Clearly Charles taught Erik too much about torture, and his punishment is to be driven _insane_ with desire and sensation. The metal spiralling around his ankles tightens, warningly, and his legs are pulled further apart. Desperately, Charles continues.

“Mutation has brought us fr- fr-from.” Erik flickers his tongue over Charles’s nipples, one after the other. “From- oh, _God!_ ” Erik bites his left nipple, warningly, even as his hands continue to fondle Charles’s cock.  
“I told you, no blasphemy.”  
“Sorry sorry sorry.” Charles babbles.  
“Don’t apologise. Just keep going.” Dear lord, why has he never noticed how much Erik looks like a shark when he smiles like that? The metal moves sinuously around him, caressing and stimulating him where Erik can’t reach. It’s exquisitely, unbearably good.  
“From the primordial soup to where the human race is today. And who is to say-“ His voice squeaks upwards, alarmingly. “

Erik, Erik, please, please, I can’t.” Charles whimpers, and he is not ashamed. He can’t stand it. This is the third time Erik has made him give his lecture, and he just can’t. There are tears in his eyes, now. He is going to die, or explode, or go mad.  
“All right, all right. _Kalme, Schatzi, calm._ ” Erik soothes him, before moving, purposefully. Charles tries to breathe. It’s much more difficult than is usually is. A flick of Erik’s fingers and the metal that has been keeping him from coming flows away from his cock. He takes Charles into his mouth and this time Charles cannot bite back his cries. Only the bonds at his wrists and feet are keeping him still. Erik hums, contentedly, around him. Charles glances down his body, and the sight of Erik crouched between his feet, eyes glittering dark with desire and delight, cheeks hollowed around Charles' cock, tip him over the edge.

Charles comes so hard he thinks he may have dislocated something. His sanity, perhaps. Erik pads off to get a wet towel, and cleans them both up. Charles lies, limp and stunned, as the metal pours itself back into the bedstead. Erik coils himself back around Charles like a passionate and possessive snake. There is silence for a few minutes.  
“All right, love?”  
“Nrgh.” Erik hugs him a little tighter, and Charles is able to summon up a faint smile.  
“Yes. Thank you. Although I may become inappropriately aroused whilst lecturing from now on.”  
“Use the lectern to hide it. Or get a piercing and let me help.” Erik yawns. 

He has come twice, leisurely, to Charles’s lecture, before he relented. Charles is surprised he’s still able to feel a faint pulse of desire at Erik’s last image. Erik contolling his erection through a piercing... He thinks of a drawback.  
“You’re not at all my lectures though. Wouldn’t work, dear one.”  
“I could be?” Erik offers, hopefully  
“You have your own lectures to get to, and your lab time. You can’t always be my assistant. I want you to be a professor too.”  
“The University won’t know what’s hit it.” Erik promises. Charles drags the covers back over them, and they sleep, tangled together.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is a human professor now. His loyal secretary is a bit worried. So is Moira McTaggert, of the Central Intelligence Agency.

The bar is, as ever, noisy and full of students. Charles _loves_ it.Erik is very slightly worried about Charles’ drinking. He lost his ever-present tea cup when he gained a soul, and while some would say that it was a fair trade, Charles does not. He’s apparently bent on replacing the missing tea with alcohol. This would be fine except that he won’t accept he cannot drink as much as he did when he was a demon, now that he is mortal. Hell, he won’t accept _Erik_ can out drink him, now. Charles will hurt himself if he drinks too much more before sobering himself up. It’s not a statement of strength; it’s a matter of volume. Charles is short. Erik is not. Charles is now a mortal professor. Erik has grown up with Azazel flitting in and out of his life, and Azazel’s vodka toughens and preserves what it does not kill. 

Thinking of Azazel’s vodka makes him think of the red-skinned demon himself. He hasn’t been around since before Charles Rose. It’s a little odd. Erik would have thought he’d have dropped by to gloat or offer a good bargain for Charles’ newly acquired soul. But he has not. Erik shrugs. Perhaps it’s a demon thing, to avoid ex-demons. Raven has turned wilder, haunting alleys and red light districts and generally putting the fear of the Almighty into most of their inhabitants. It’s kind of funny, but Raven is doing more for the causes of virtue and the protection of the vulnerable than any ten police officers. Raven hadn’t taken the change in Charles well. Possibly because he made her and now is turning away from her. Possibly it’s because she senses Charles is now a man, and adult male, like her lawful prey whereas before he was just her demonic brother Charles. They rarely see her any more

Erik spots the barman pointing them out to a strange woman, and Erik tenses. He doesn’t know her, but he still goes Nazi hunting in term breaks- although now, of course he has to turn them over to Mossad, or some other due legal process, or Charles gets nightmares. It’s possible they have tracked him down. If someone has connected Max Eisenhardt the Polish Nazi hunter to Erik Lensherr the Oxford metallurgy student, then Charles might be in danger. That is something Erik will not allow. Charles is still vulnerable. As someone who is an ex angel, _and_ an ex demon, his spiritual nature is very easily disturbed. Too much one way or the other could tip the balance completely. Again

Moira McTaggert, CIA Agent, is having a bad day. She’s still jet lagged, she can’t find a decent coffee in this miserable town, and everywhere she goes in search of this elusive Professor Xavier she is attacked by students swooping past on bicycles. Her feet hurt, she’s exhausted and she is aware time is running out. It’s enough to drive a woman to drink. Her next location is a bar, though, so it’s possible she can kill two birds with one stone. It’s not a student bar, not quite- there are prints on the walls, and the floor is clean. There’s a moderately sized group though, surrounding two men who are both swilling down beer from those ridiculous glass things they call “a yard of ale” over here. The cheering and the chugging are both annoying. Moira sighs. She approaches the bartender, who has been wiping the same glass for the last half hour.  
“Hello. I’m looking for a professor, Professor Xavier. They said he might be here with his secretary?” The barman nods. Moira closes her eyes in relief. Thank god. She’s found him. Then the barman points to the two men swilling down ale, and Moira has to resist the temptation to curse. Again. 

Erik deliberately stares at the strange brunette until she notices. She does not flush, or flinch. She nods at him, and walks over, keeping her hands in plain view at all times. Erik un tenses slightly. Whoever she is, whatever she is, she can tell he’s dangerous. _Good._  
“Professor Xavier?”  
“Who wants to know?” Erik is curt. He refuses to let he know she’s approached the wrong man until Charles has sobered up. He flicks a glance at him; Charles is pinching the bridge of his nose and assuming a look of mildly drunken focus. That means he’s well on the way to sober, but is hiding it.  
"My name is Moira McTaggert. I’m hoping you can help me.” She puts out her hand to shake; Erik ignores it as he gestures for them to move to a table and sit. Charles lurks in the background.

Erik can hear him chatting up a pretty girl, but he knows that his professor is eavesdropping by the way his ears feel. They always tingle slightly when Charles is borrowing them.  
“How can I help you, Miss McTaggert?”  
“It’s Agent McTaggert, Professor Xavier.” She says, briskly. “And I believe you are one of the foremost authorities on human genetic mutation?” He favours her with a nod, and curses Charles, inwardly. He doesn’t know enough to pass as Charles for much longer, not with someone who knows what they’re talking about. He can feel Charles grin in his head.

Five minutes later, none of them are smiling. Charles has abandoned flirting with girls he’s never going to take home, and sat down at the table. He’s let Moira know which of the pair of them the professor actually is. He has also dropped into Erik’s brain what he’s fished out of Moira’s. She’s telling the truth about being an agent- CIA, to be exact. She is also fascinated by mutants, having seen three operating to influence at least one US Senator, while she was undercover in something called the Hellfire Club. 

At least, she _thinks_ she has seen three. Actually she has seen one mutant and two demons, but there’s no need to let her know that right now. Now they know where Azazel has been. And what happened to Emaliel- who is apparently calling herself Emma Frost. They know there is some form of secret, probably criminal, possibly destructive network moving between the underworlds of both East and West. What they don’t know is _why_. 

Azazel has only ever been interested in his soul collection. Emma had seemed more interested in purifying the world of the wicked than in working for them. It does not make sense, but Erik knows, who better, how dangerous demons and mutants can be, working together. Charles does, too. As the pretty Agent talks, tales of mutants and conspiracy, he catches other hints that intrigue and excite him. Moira thinks the small collection of demons and human mutants are a genuine threat. Moira is tired of not being taken seriously. 

Moira has contacts within the CIA who are also interested in the mutants they believe must be out there.  
“Well, this is all very interesting. We can certainly help you, if you wish.” He beams at her. She frowns, slightly, and he tones down the enthusiasm. It’s sad, really. Humans are so mistrustful of even positive emotions.  
“We?” she asks  
“Oh, I may be a professor of genetics, my dear, but I _refuse_ to go anywhere without my loyal private secretary. "He smiles helplessly at Erik. Erik rolls his eyes and wishes he could smother Charles. Moira looks unsurprised.

Two hours later they’re on a plane to Langley, Virginia. Home of the Central Intelligence Agency of the USA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of the story. I have a few snippets of what happens later, but this is pretty much it. I hope you enjoyed it. You can see what's going to happen now, can't you? Mad ex Angel Emma and team will try and purify the world in nuclear fire, and Team Pro Mutant will have to stop them. In fact, if anyone wants to continue this and re write the film. feel free. Just let me know and link me.
> 
> I'll put the snippets up later in the week, maybe.


End file.
